


Needs Must When The Devil Drives

by ZealouslyQuixotic



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, Not Really Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2018-04-19 03:49:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4731833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZealouslyQuixotic/pseuds/ZealouslyQuixotic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it boiled down to the bare elements, Napoleon had always lacked the ability to treat serious things with the respect they deserved, and Illya was nothing if not serious.<br/>A serious person and a serious relationship right from their stumbled attempts at friendship through to the nebulous lines surrounding loyalty, lust, love. He had never known where they stood because he refused to quantify his own emotions. How could he begin to comprehend Illya’s when he was so far in denial about the sheer extent of his own? He had wasted years in that same manner; denying, joking, maintaining a front of shallow interest, of want founded solely in carnal gratification.<br/>His time had long since run out and now all he had was an undeserved sacrifice, a cracked veneer, and a paraphrased line from a 17th century poem.<br/>"Had I but world enough, and time."<br/>Damning last words of regret and forgiveness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Needs Must When The Devil Drives

New York, 1971

 _“Had I but world enough, and time”_ had been Illya’s last words. Spoken soft, yet unwavering, a secret imparted in a moment that oscillated impossibly between a second and an age. Napoleon could recall with perfect clarity the intonation of each word, the pitch, the set of Illya’s spine – resolute, unaccommodating – the shape of his jaw, and the way the skin rippled around the corners of his mouth. He could recall the exact shade of blue in that piercing stare, the dark sweep of his lashes when his gaze slipped away. It felt like the dirt still stained his hands, manacles cold against his skin, the concrete wall hard at his back.  Then, he had known rescue was imminent. Now, it felt like every bone in his body was humming the same mantra – one that his mind refused to entertain.

When Alexander Waverly stepped into the little office and closed the door quietly behind him, the humming in his bones seemed to grow louder and more insistent.

The older man’s expression was closed off, his jaw set and weariness etched into every line that graced his brow. His tweed suit was immaculate, as always, but the material seemed to bag around his shoulders as he stooped towards the desk.

“Look,” he began and then halted. Clearing his throat he then sat down on the wooden chair behind the desk and folded his hands in front of him. “There’s simply no easy way to say this.”

Napoleon knew what he was going to say; he had known it with fatalistic certainty – a manner of being quite foreign to him – the very moment of Illya’s departure. The knowledge had come with those seconds burnt into his memory, a running script on repeat with no end in sight.

But he needed to hear it. The lack of confirmation was unbearable. Napoleon waited, silent, his gaze fixed on grey hairs that decorated his superior’s gnarled knuckles.

“Illya Kuryakin is dead.” Waverly said finally, voice even but touched with a note of regret. As if he had lost a distant acquaintance, or a colleague he saw occasionally and was somewhat fond of. Napoleon knew better, but in their world; the less given, the less taken.

Waverly seemed to require a response, so Napoleon raised his gaze to the garish yellow tie nestled between the lapels of the tweed suit.

“When?”

“Brezhnev ordered his execution for this morning,” Waverly exhaled. “He was to be made an example of, but he didn’t even make it through the night – some extremists with knives, a nasty affair. ” He tapped his fingers against the backs of his hands, and then added. “We didn’t have enough time to mount any kind of rescue operation.”

“Would you have?” Napoleon snorted, his smile bitter. _Had I but world enough, and time._  

“Isn’t that the question?” Waverly’s forehead creased, his mouth downturned. “I would like to think so, Solo, but the truth? Well, the truth never is quite like fantasy.”

“I would have gone after him.” Napoleon said quietly, his anger buried under layers of self-recrimination and guilt.

“An ex-CIA operative? You would have been killed – or worse, you could have started a nuclear war.” Waverly countered, and then sighed. “You know, Solo, I might have sent you had we any chance of successfully infiltrating Russia – Kuryakin was an excellent asset. It is a shame to lose him.”

“A shame.” Napoleon echoed. “Yes. Will that be all?”

“You’ll have two weeks of leave,” Waverly assessed him with knowing eyes. “We’ll be holding a…service, of sorts. You may wish to inform Agent Teller – she returns from Romania this Tuesday – or, if you prefer, I will do so.”

“I’ll tell her,” Napoleon said shortly. He wanted to say: “ _she knows, it was inevitable”_ but didn’t. He wanted to say: “ _he sacrificed so much for you, for us, and we all knew what the consequences would be_ ”, but the words stuck in his throat. Lodged there, like a bullet wedged in a rib – inextricable unless plucked deliberately, painfully, from its berth.

He stood and straightened his suit, and his hands shook the slightest bit as he tugged the lapels into place. Waverly watched him with tired eyes, but seemed disinclined to say anything more. Taking that as the finality it seemed to be, Napoleon strode to the door and opened it. When he turned to close it behind him, he met Waverley’s gaze and the older man heaved a sigh.

“Wait, Solo.”

Napoleon waited, watched, as the older man stood and joined him at the door.

“Kuryakin – Illya – knew the risks when he went after you. Rather, despite his frequent bursts of, ah, temper – shall we say? – He wasn’t one for rushing into things without careful planning.” Waverly eyed him as if assessing the impact of his words. “My point is that he must have thought it was worth it.” The corollary remained unvoiced, but Napoleon could hear it nonetheless.

 _He must have thought you were worth it_ was what Waverly meant.

“I can’t imagine why,” Napoleon chuckled bitterly.

Waverly shot him a disapproving look. “Yes, you can.”

The door closed abruptly and Napoleon stared at the flaking white paint, and wondered what he was supposed to do with two weeks of enforced introspection.

 

_Istanbul, 1963_

_Illya opened the door at his tenth knock to glare furiously at him. Hunched in the doorway, his very posture indicating a lack of welcome, he barred Napoleon’s entrance._

_“You are not supposed to be here.” The words were quiet, hissed, but no less intense than his normal volume. “This is not part of plan.”_

_“Simmer down, Peril.” Napoleon said cheerfully. “I wasn’t followed, and so what if I was? Nothing suspicious here unless you insist on towering in the doorway like some kind of fairytale golem.”_

_The roasting heat in Illya’s gaze banked several notches but he drew back and stood aside so that Napoleon could enter._

_“That’s the way,” Napoleon patted him on the shoulder as he passed by. It was somewhat like baiting a bear – a violent, unpredictable, Russian bear – but damned if he didn’t get a thrill of perverse pleasure from skating so close to dismemberment._

_Illya closed the door behind him in a controlled manner that suggested he would like nothing more than to slam it shut – perhaps using Napoleon’s body to do so. Then he crossed his arms and fixed his gaze on Napoleon with the pointed force of a non-verbal question mark._

_Napoleon weighed the options of bear-baiting open to him, but decided he had risked life and limb enough that evening to steal the object he was rolling around in his palms. The movement, of course, drew Illya’s gaze and the Russian’s eyes narrowed even further._

_“What is that?”_

_Napoleon affected nonchalance and tossed the object into the air, catching it deftly with a pointed look at the taller man._

_“Oh this old thing? Only the very purpose for our presence here in Istanbul.”_

_“You have it, already?” Illya’s voice betrayed disbelief, which might have hurt if Napoleon was any less self-assured, or any more vested in the other spy’s opinion. Naturally, he wasn’t._

_“That’s what I said Peril, do try to keep up.” Napoleon tossed the object at him for inspection and meandered over to the tiny kitchen nestled in the corner of the apartment. “Now, more importantly, where do you keep your liquor?”_

New York, 1971

The door of his apartment swung shut behind him with a jolting crash. Pausing, Napoleon glanced down at his hands and found they were shaking with a pronounced and unsettling tremor. He curled his fingers slowly and squeezed as he breathed deeply, then exhaled. The trembling settled with the steady flow of air as he tamped down his emotions into a corner of his mind where he didn’t have to deal with them. Moving to a small navy couch near the sole window, he sat down, rested his elbows on his thighs and buried his head in his hands.

His first thought was to drink himself into oblivion, and then find someone with long legs to lose himself with, or in, but both options felt like a disservice to his partner’s memory. The former because Illya despised Napoleon when he was drunk – which was not often despite the fact that Illya’s definition of the word was considerably more conservative than most  - the latter because, well, reasons he wasn’t comfortable entertaining even in his own mind – _especially_ in his own mind.

 _Had I world enough, and time._  

Whatever the reason, Napoleon’s ability to drink to excess and his unrelenting womanizing had been a constant point of contention between them that had spanned the entire breadth of their partnership.

 

_Marseilles, 1964_

_“Don’t you ever turn it off?” Illya asked, exasperated._

_“When you’ve got it, you’ve got it.” Napoleon flashed the Russian his brightest smile, “and I’ve got it.” **[i]**_

_Illya huffed, mildly incredulous. “Is distasteful and unnecessary.”_

_“Sure you’re not just jealous that you can’t turn it on?” Napoleon smirked. Inwardly he bristled at his skills being categorized as ‘unnecessary’. Sure he didn’t need to seduce quite as many women as he tended to in order to achieve the mission objectives, but a solid amount of their intelligence was obtained from jealous lovers and vindictive ex-wives._

_“I can turn it on.” Illya scowled but it was more for show than a display of true ire._

_“Oh yeah?” Napoleon eyed the Russian’s plain suit – an improvement on his black turtleneck, but by no means eye-catching – and sullen expression. “I somehow doubt that. I think you’ll have to prove it.”_

_Never one to back down from a challenge, the corners of Illya’s lips twitched in a minute expression and then he leaned in close enough that Napoleon could feel hot breath against the skin of his neck, yet far enough away to be thought proper. Quietly, he uttered; “prepare to lose, Cowboy,” and then straightened and moved into the crowd._

_Napoleon watched him bump clumsily into an elegant well-dressed woman, causing her to gasp and drop her glass of champagne. Illya caught the glass with a smooth flourish and presented it to her, apologizing profusely with a positively sincere light in his eyes. Tall, straight-backed, with his blonde hair curling fetchingly across his forehead and an almost boyish expression on his face, he seemed impossibly attractive._

_Napoleon mentally applauded the Russian spy’s smooth work – he was clearly no stranger to seduction in the line of duty. He supposed it was to be expected considering the thoroughness of the KGB’s training, though he had previously had trouble imagining any kind of expression gracing the man’s face that wasn’t in some way derived from a scowl._

_The woman seemed completely charmed, taking the glass with a flirtatious giggle, and resting her hand lightly on his arm. Her body was curved towards him, eyes fixed on his face and attention completely captured by his words. Within minutes she had worked up the courage to trace her fingers down the line of his chest, flicking her gaze up coquettishly with unmistakable intent._

_Without dropping character, Illya glanced over at Napoleon and the corners of his lips twitched again. Napoleon was beginning to think it was his version of a smile. He raised his glass in salute, acknowledging defeat, and turned away to give him a semblance of privacy._

_Having already obtained the intelligence they sought, he thought it was high time he took off and found something more exciting to do. Illya could find his own way home when he was finished. He took his time meandering through the crowd for appearances sake, and when he reached the parking lot, it was to find Illya waiting for him._

_“That was quick,” Napoleon noted with a smile bordering on lascivious._

_Illya scowled in his customary manner and straightened from where he was leaning, arms crossed, against a white Bentley._

_“She was not my type,” he said gruffly._

_“Not Russian enough?” Napoleon hazarded a guess. His first thought had been entirely more insulting but he liked his suit and wasn’t keen on ripping it – or having it ripped for him, for that matter._

_“Something like this…yes.” Illya responded after a pregnant pause._

_Napoleon filed the reaction away for future study and scanned the parking lot. His eyes alighted on a baby blue Triumph and he couldn’t resist a devilish smile. He walked over to it and patted the trunk with unabashed glee._

_“Now what does this remind you of?”_

_A backward glance told him Illya was somewhat less than amused. “This is ridiculous car.”_

_“Nonsense. It can outrun you, can’t it?” He stooped down at the door and made quick work of the lock. “Do me a favor, Peril? Don’t rip the back off of this one.” **[ii]** _

…

New York, 1971

Napoleon was always talking. Whether it was in pursuit of seduction, witty conversation, or engaging in an internal monologue on the job, he was never truly silent. For him, silence was a thing to be avoided at any cost. Silence uncovered holes in stories, chipped away at chinks in armor and left entirely too much out in the open, bare and exposed. A pause could be a thing of beauty and yet, if left too long, could destroy camaraderie between one instant and the next. The emptiness between words made him feel as if his carefully sculpted veneer might crack and slip from his face, leaving him vulnerable and defenseless, a formless thing lacking worth or utility.

The silence in his apartment was unbearable. It felt corporeal, like a presence filling the empty space – at once monstrously large and infinitesimally small. He wanted desperately to shatter it but the gravity of the fact of Illya’s death was so great he had nothing that could escape it. Like the black holes Illya had once described to him, the knowledge was so vastly overwhelming that it had sucked everything he had to its core. No words seemed able to withstand its grasp.

Words were useless, anyway.

He was truly pathetic to be so destroyed by the mere confirmation of something he had all but known to be true.

The silence matched his heartbeat in its uncompromising rhythm.

 

_Philadelphia, 1964_

_They were sitting in a derelict classroom, at tiny desks far better suited for pre-adolescent children than the dozen adult operatives from U.N.C.L.E. Naturally the worst inconvenienced was Illya who had point-blank refused to even attempt to squeeze his not inconsiderable bulk into the tiny space between chair and table, and had instead chosen to tower threateningly by the back wall. With crossed arms and his ever-present hat tucked low over his face he was every inch the non-cooperative Russian spy in unfamiliar territory. Napoleon had managed to balance himself on the back of the chair, feet on the seat, and elbows resting on his knees. Gaby had been the only one without any problems, her small stature proving advantageous – not for the first time, as she liked to remind them both._

_When the ‘instructor’ strolled in, there was a general babble of inquest into the arrangements that was quickly stifled with raised hands._

_“I know, I know,” the mid-fortyish man spoke with a strangely high voice. “The seating is terrible, the chairs are too small, we are well aware.”_

_“So why are we still sitting in them?” A black haired man asked irritably._

_“_ You _might be sitting,” another groused quietly._

_“It’s character building.” The instructor dropped a pile of textbooks on his normal sized desk then whipped out a piece of chalk and began to draw diagrams on the blackboard behind him._

_Shortly after the chalk started scratching across the board, Napoleon noticed Illya twitching out of the corner of his eyes. He turned his head slightly to watch the apparently irate Russian who seemed unaware of, or unable to prevent, the look of exasperated bewilderment gracing his features._

_Napoleon watched Illya twitch and wince his way through the entire of the forty-five minutes it took the instructor to demonstrate how to safely dismantle numerous timed bombs of varying triggers and compounds._

_Once he’d ceased talking, the Russian spy shook his head and muttered disparagingly “survival school? Would be miracle if anyone survived that demonstration” then, as if unable to remain in the room one minute longer, stormed out with more drama than was probably necessary._

_Napoleon glanced at Gaby to confirm – his own knowledge of dismantling bombs far less thorough than theirs – and grinned when she drew a finger across her throat with comically wide eyes._

_“Should we fetch Peril?” He whispered as the lecturer started speaking again._

_“I think he knows how to use a knife,” Gaby shook her head._

_Illya returned a few minutes later, took one look at the position of the instructor’s hand on the handle of the knife and growled violently in Russian. The noise disturbed several of the agents who glanced back in alarm, one actually leaping ungracefully from his seat to counter the threat._

_The instructor paused and leveled a glare – with impressive fortitude – at Illya, tapping his fingers irritably on the desk._

_“If you don’t mind?” He squeaked._

_“By all means.” Illya waved his hand satirically, “continue teaching these agents how best to hand their weapons to their enemies. Is important skill; my country thanks you. Makes our jobs easier.”_

_“You think you can do better?” The instructor demanded._

_“I would think that obvious.” Illya replied with no trace of sarcasm in his voice. He reached down and plucked a long serrated blade from under his pant leg, twirled it once, and then pointed it directly at the now uncomfortable man. “Hold like this,” he instructed. “Blade opposite direction of fingers, and away from body. Prevents your opponent from using the knife against you and allows for forward slash like so.” He demonstrated in a blindingly fast, sharp, movement that caused several agents to shuffle swiftly away._

_Illya rolled his eyes skyward and sheathed the knife._

_“This man is teaching you how to die,” he advised the room at large. When there was nothing but prolonged silence, he scoffed and crossed his arms again. “Bah, but what do I care? Less work for me when I return to KGB.”_

_Napoleon glanced at Gaby – who was stifling un-ladylike snorts into her jacket – then at the instructor – who looked nothing short of terrified – and determined that he was going to have to be the one to intervene, if anyone._

_Before he could take any kind of positive action, Waverly’s voice interrupted by way of a radio built-in to the side of the room – it seemed that U.N.C.L.E had hijacked the facilities of a children’s summer camp._

_“Kuryakin,” he said wearily. “If you would kindly desist in terrorizing my operatives.”_

_“They are soft,” Illya retorted, unimpressed. “Like rabbits. KGB would eat them alive.” Without a physical body to direct his ire towards, he appeared to be lecturing the ceiling. Napoleon found it more amusing than he had any right to._

_“That is rather the point of survival training,” Waverly said dryly. “So that they learn how to survive.”_

_“Then why send incompetent idiot to teach them?”_

_There was a pause in which the incompetent idiot bristled ineffectually and then Waverly chuckled._

_“Why indeed? I don’t suppose you’d like to takeover?”_

_The expression on Illya’s face suggested that he very much would like to takeover, if only so he didn’t have to suffer through the incompetent idiot’s tutelage, but he shook his head sharply and muttered something in Russian about not being a traitor and aiding the enemy._

_“Perhaps another time, then.” Waverly said genially. “Do carry on Mr. Willet.”_

 

New York, 1971

The second day, Napoleon broke a lamp. He sent it careening against the wall with less rage, than curiosity. For a moment it shattered the pervasive silence and he felt as if he could breathe again without the iron weights that seemed permanently attached to his lungs. He looked down at his hands, familiar yet alien, and wondered how Illya had felt when that psychotic rage washed over him, wondered if he found any peace in the wanton destruction it drove him to.

 

_New York, 1965_

_They were temporarily grounded from missions, though none of them knew why. Illya thought it was because they had gotten their contact killed in their last mission_ before _they had extracted the information from him, but Napoleon was not convinced. For starters, Waverly’s reaction had been fairly underwhelming – a weary “fortunes of war, boys” and advised them to try talking to their contacts before setting them on fire. Secondly, and more importantly, Napoleon felt like a good portion of the inhabitants of the city they were grounded in seemed determined to kill him in varied, though not particularly creative, ways. Completely ignoring Illya who, more often than not, was present for such attempts, they would hone in on Napoleon like heat missiles._

_Illya found it hilarious, if the Russian’s increasingly amused expressions were anything to go by, and generally wouldn’t even assist Napoleon unless it looked like one of the hit-men – there really was no other term for it – had the upper hand. Instead he would call out pointers, or criticize the performance of both sides and, once, when Napoleon felled a particularly large and vicious German, procured a card from somewhere within his black turtleneck, scribbled a large ‘10’ on it and waved it mockingly in the air._

_Things between them were less openly hostile than at the beginning of their tenuous partnership, but Napoleon wasn’t quite willing to say they were friendly. He, of course, was the very picture of civility – it just so happened that the image was only skin deep. The Russian, on the other hand, wasn’t exactly known for his subtlety, so he was less the picture of civility and more the physical embodiment of thinly veiled irritation. When Gaby worked with them she somehow balanced them out by managing to be both the picture of tolerance and the physical embodiment of miniaturized rage._

_Napoleon thought even Illya might be wary of her, but it was hard to judge, as the Russian had never once backed down from a verbal – or physical for that matter - spar._

_Said Russian was currently boring holes into Napoleon’s back from his seat in the hallway, arms folded, as if blame for the entire thing could be laid at his feet._

_It didn’t help that the U.N.C.L.E headquarters were in New York – hardly a ‘neutral’ location, if you asked Napoleon, but who was he to protest the home advantage? – Which meant Illya was already tense and jumpy just by virtue of being firmly on enemy soil._

_Napoleon supposed it was actually fairly hilarious that he – a CIA operative – could stroll around an American city with a KGB spy and yet still be the one everyone had square in their sniper scopes._

_The door to Waverly’s office swung open and smacked against the wall with a solid amount of force. Gaby was revealed in the doorway, her outfit as dark as her mood. She strode over to Napoleon and slapped him hard in the face, then pointed her finger accusingly at him._

_“Ow.” Napoleon said by way of protest._

_“You complete idiot,” she hissed. “You couldn’t keep it in your pants for_ one _mission?”_

_Illya – the bastard – had perked up with obvious interest and wasn’t even trying to hide the look of smug satisfaction blooming across his features. This had to be like prime time TV for him - nothing better than seeing Napoleon dressed down, particularly for something relating to his womanizing._

_“I’m sorry?” Napoleon tried, hard-pressed to remember what mission she could be referring to. Really, they all ended the same way, so there wasn’t much information to go off of._

_“No you’re not,” she withdrew the accusatory finger and crossed her arms. “But you will be. Maybe. Ugh, actually you’ll probably enjoy this.” She fluttered her hand in the direction of the open door, “Waverly’s waiting for you both.”_

_Napoleon smiled winningly at her, tried to not take the snort of disgust to heart, and followed Illya into the office with minimal fanfare._

_Waverly didn’t offer either of them a seat, or stand himself. Instead he glowered at Napoleon for a full minute and then shook his head with a sigh._

_“Gentleman, as I’m sure has not escaped your notice, there are several men trying to kill you.”_

_“Just Cowboy.” Illya interjected in a manner that was probably his version of gleeful._

_“And there were more than several,” Napoleon added for good measure._

_“Right, yes,” Waverly nodded. “Well it appears that ‘a hit’ has been taken out on you, Mr. Solo.” He fixed Napoleon with an expectant look._

_“Soviets?” Napoleon guessed. “Something you want to tell us, Peril?”_

_Illya huffed. “If it were Soviet assassin, you would not be here to talk about it, okay Cowboy? You would be dead.”_

_“It would certainly explain why they have no interest in_ you _,” Napoleon muttered._

_“Gentlemen,” Waverly coughed._

_“Relax,” Illya said dryly, appearing not to hear their superior. “You are not trouble enough to send Soviet assassin.” His lips twitched, “and if you were, they could always ask me. Would be no problem.”_

_“Ouch Peril, that hurts.” Napoleon shook his head, feigning sorrow. “I thought we were friends?”_

_“As did I,” Illya seemed perfectly happy to play into his drama. “Then you open mouth and the illusion is dispersed.”_

_“Okay, what’s the deal Peril?” Napoleon groused good-naturedly. “You know words like ‘illusion’ and ‘dispersed’ and yet you can’t remember your pronouns and indefinite articles?” He thought he’d finally caught the Russian out in the middle of pretending he couldn’t speak English as well as he actually could. It’d be interesting to watch him wiggle out of that one._

_Illya didn’t even try. “I have no need of such things,” he shrugged._

_“No need of…?” Napoleon threw his hands in the air in exasperation and turned to Waverly. “I cannot deal with this, this butchery of the English language!”_

_“Well you two certainly seem to be getting along.” Waverly said warily, “maybe a little too well.”_

_“I do not ‘get along’,” Illya protested at the same time as Napoleon’s indignant “get along with the Red Peril?”_

_“Convincing.” Waverly remarked dryly. “Back to business. A wealthy lady by the name of Ethel Abernathy has taken ‘a hit’ out on a Mr. Bill White. Name sound familiar, Solo?”_

_Napoleon rolled his eyes. “Why, because he didn’t sleep with her?”_

_“Hmm, no, close though.” Waverly raised his eyebrows. “Because he did.”_

_Napoleon winced. “Ah.”_

_“Yes.” Waverly frowned, “though as I recall your express instructions were to refrain from engaging in sexual relations, ah, with her.”_

_“Were they?” Napoleon attempted innocence and then sighed. “It seemed the best way to achieve the mission objective, at the time.”_

_“Of course.” Illya cut in. “Because the only way Cowboy can successfully finish a mission is by…”_

_“Finishing someone else?” Napoleon interjected with a smirk._

_Illya’s frowned, thrown by the idiom, and clearly puzzling out the meaning of his words in the given context. “Finish – as in boxing, to knock out?”_

_“Well that can certainly be the result, if you do it right.” Napoleon said helpfully._

_Illya scowled. “Is illogical to have so many meanings attached to one word.”_

_“Solo was alluding to something rather crude,” Waverly said disapprovingly. “I’m sure you are familiar with innuendo, Kuryakin.”_

_Illya nodded._

_“Well then, think along sexual lines and you may get there in the end. Moving along.” Waverly shuffled the papers on his desk and fixed Napoleon with a pointed look. “By now I’m sure you realize what happens next.”_

_Napoleon nodded. “Someone has to succeed in killing Mr. White, of course.”_

_“I volunteer.”_

_“No need to sound so eager, Peril.”_

_“I would not want to miss out, Cowboy.”_

 

New York, 1971

There were books in Napoleon’s apartment that had no business being there. They didn’t belong to him though he knew their contents like the back of his hand. Napoleon had read English literature and poetry voraciously both in his youth and military service, right through to his time with the CIA. Words had always been a source of comfort to him, as well as an expression of thought and emotion. They rarely failed him and he could always find the perfect combination to suit any situation he found himself in. Spinning lies, stories, and histories on the fly was as much his trade as high-level thievery and cunning sleight-of-hand. Napoleon was always in character, always adjusting his words, his mannerisms, to suit the illusion he intended to create.

Illya was – had been – surprisingly efficient at improvisation, following Napoleon’s lead with a flair for drama that belied his affected lack of enthusiasm. Over the years they’d worked themselves out of – and in to – dangerous situations by getting caught up in their charade, playing off of one another with vicarious freedom.

But his willingness had always been vested in the parameters of their missions. Beyond that, Napoleon’s inability to ‘drop the act’ was a constant source of frustration for the Russian. Many times he had accused Napoleon of being ‘fake’ or ‘insincere’, treated his words with distrust and caution, and had held the view, as did most, that the thief-turned-spy was ‘shallower than a puddle’.

Napoleon had tried not to take offence as it was, after all, the persona he worked so hard to maintain. It was nothing short of foolhardy for him to expect anyone – let alone Illya – to see through it.

Staring flatly at the books Illya had left in his apartment one night for reasons unknown, Napoleon wondered if the Russian would have appreciated the fact that it was his death that had finally stripped Napoleon of his despised armor. Though perhaps it would make no difference. Napoleon wasn’t even sure who he was without his charm, his devil-may-care attitude, and the characters he wore like ties to be switched at will. If he was being honest he didn’t think there would have been much of a chance of Illya liking him as he really was, sans bullshit and amicability.

When it boiled down to the bare elements, Napoleon had always lacked the ability to treat serious things with the respect they deserved, and Illya was nothing if not serious.

A serious person and a serious relationship right from their stumbled attempts at friendship through to the nebulous lines surrounding loyalty, lust, love. He had never known where they stood because he refused to quantify his own emotions. How could he begin to comprehend Illya’s when he was so far in denial about the sheer extent of his own? He had wasted years in that same manner; denying, joking, maintaining a front of shallow interest, of want founded solely in carnal gratification.

His time had long since run out and now all he had was an undeserved sacrifice, a cracked veneer, and a paraphrased line from a 17th century poem.

 _Had I but world enough, and time_.

Damning last words of regret and forgiveness.

_New York, 1966_

_It had not escaped Napoleon’s notice that he consistently managed to elicit more words per minute from Illya than any other living being, just by virtue of being in the same room as him. Gaby attributed it to Illya channeling his violence verbally so as to avoid maiming or outright murdering him. Waverly seemed of the – misguided – opinion the two were secretly friends engaged in a strict, mutual, denial._

_But despite the fact that Illya frequently spoke around him, Napoleon couldn’t say what he had actually learnt about the other man aside from which buttons should be labeled ‘press often and with relish’ and which ‘avoid at all costs if in close quarters’._

_There were a few things he had observed; such as the Russian’s tendency to pretend he couldn’t speak English just as well as everyone else, though Napoleon had once witnessed him adopt an American accent on a mission and speak with flawless grammar. It had also become clear to him that, in direct contrast to everything he’d heard and observed about Russians, Illya would never drink more than one glass of any kind of alcohol. If he even finished the one glass, it would be slow and methodical as if he were trying to drink the liquor in such a way that it would have absolutely no effect at all. Corrupting him, in that regard, was at the top of Napoleon’s list of downtime activities._

_A few other things were obvious; like his distaste for extravagant clothing – or just anything other than dark turtlenecks and black slacks – his consistent lack of desire in sleeping with women – at least insofar as missions were concerned. Beyond that, Napoleon had no idea – his love of chess, his enormous appetite and, far more subtle, his predilection for English literature and poetry._

_The appetite was hardly a surprise given his height and conditioning. Frankly, Napoleon would have been more concerned if he didn’t consume as much sustenance as he did._

_The in-depth and accurate knowledge of English literature and poetry was another story. It was unexpected even knowing, as he did, the intelligence that simmered beneath the surface, hidden deftly behind layers of muscle and determination._

_Any first opinion drawn of Illya was no doubt based on his sheer size and intimidating presence. He was Napoleon’s complete opposite, in that respect. Where Napoleon was smooth and suave, Illya was rough and brusque. Napoleon talked in circles, Illya barreled down straight lines. But it would be a mistake to assume that all the Russian was capable of was targeted violence – a point and shoot weapon with no autonomy. Napoleon had witnessed flashes of studied and strategic intelligence that would make him a far more dangerous ally – or opponent - than previously acknowledged._

_Napoleon still wondered which of the two would ultimately prove true - ally or opponent? Illya was devoted to duty and loyal to a fault, but loyal to whom?_

_It remained a fact that no one really knew what Illya Kuryakin did when he went home. **[iii]** Home, of course, being whatever temporary or semi-permanent lodgings they were given by U.N.C.L.E when not required for missions. Quite often the two of them were right next door to each other, and Napoleon had never been invited over - or out, incidentally - by the Russian. Whether it was a preference for solitude or a ploy for secrecy in which to contact his Russian handlers, Napoleon couldn’t say.   _

_It had been a few years, but Napoleon was keenly aware the other man was, first and foremost, on loan from the KGB. What Waverly did with that information was beyond him – the old military man seemed to trust the Russian spy implicitly even knowing he was likely in contact with the KGB. Napoleon himself had been CIA until his five years had run out, after which the organization had been only too happy to leave him indefinitely as U.N.C.L.E’s problem._

_Napoleon had kept his distance, to a point, because it seemed foolhardy to pursue any kind of relationship – friendly, collegial, or otherwise – with a man who might one day be ordered to betray him, and everything he had worked towards._

_But he never had been any good at following even his own rules, and his curiosity too often outweighed his caution._

_Which was why he was waiting, ear to his door, for any sounds that might suggest his Russian colleague was leaving the apartment building with, of course, every intention to shadow him shamelessly. He would have bugged Illya’s room if he’d ever been allowed to step foot in it, but he hadn’t. Why he’d chosen not to break in was a bit of a mystery to him. He attributed it partly to an unconscious desire to respect the other man’s privacy, though he had no idea from what bottomless abyss the thought had stemmed. Possibly it was because he knew Illya expected him to do something of the sort, and therefore would be prepared so he wasn’t likely to unearth anything interesting._

_The sound of a door quietly clicking shut alerted him to Illya’s movements. Napoleon waited, hardly even able to hear footsteps, for a full minute before leaving his own apartment and hurrying after him. By the time he reached the street, Illya was disappearing around a corner. The taller man’s long legs and swift stride gave him a definite advantage, so Napoleon hastened his pace before his quarry could vanish into the early evening. If Illya was aware of his pursuer, he gave no indication of it, though Napoleon wasn’t quite cocky enough to take that as a sign that he wasn’t._

_He didn’t appear to be in a hurry, only glancing once at his watch, and his pace never faltered, indicating that wherever he was going, he’d most likely been there before._

_Napoleon would have been willing to bet he was meeting his handler or a fellow agent to pass on information to the KGB, but there was something about his manner that belied secrecy. For one thing, he wasn’t backtracking or attempting to confuse potential pursuers in any way – in fact, he wasn’t even really checking for them. Illya hadn’t once glanced behind him, which, for a spy, was an almost fatal mistake. It was probably why Napoleon had managed to follow him as far as he had without being spotted._

_Illya turned and walked through a tall stone arch into a large courtyard that Napoleon vaguely recognized. It hit him suddenly when he saw the building at the end of the courtyard – they were at the New York University – and his curiosity was piqued even further. What possible business could the KGB spy have at a prominent American university? Wild theories – which weren’t so wild, given his line of work – sprang to his mind with ease. Illya could be there to assassinate one of the intellectuals, or to steal information about American advances in science or technology. He could be meeting KGB agents embedded in the student populace or…Napoleon blinked, a little thrown, as Illya walked right into one of the busy lecture rooms and installed himself behind the podium at the front._

_He was on the verge of wondering how he could enter the room without drawing Illya’s attention when the Russian looked up directly at him and raised his eyebrow. Napoleon stared back, a little guilty, but mostly annoyed that he had been fooled by the other man’s apparent nonchalance. Slowly, Illya swept his arm out towards the seats and inclined his head a fraction in open invitation. Still curious, despite his annoyance, Napoleon shrugged and took a seat at the back._

_After a few minutes the buzz of chatter in the room subsided and Napoleon saw the students turn to look at Illya with open curiosity. So this was not a normal occurrence, then._

_“Good evening,” Illya addressed the room. “Professor Shull was called away on urgent business this morning. He asked that I take the class as I am reasonably well versed in his work on Neutron Diffraction.”_

_From that point onwards Napoleon wasn’t entirely sure that he was speaking English. As there was very little he could comprehend, he focused instead on watching the Russian’s facial expressions and gestures, trying to learn what he could from non-verbal cues. It was eminently obvious that Illya was passionate about the subject matter. His expression was no less intense than usual – in fact, Napoleon heard a few girls giggling about how sexy it was - but he spoke with a kind of fevered poetry, shoulders loose as if all the tension had been wrung out of him. Napoleon was startled to find that he was quite content watching Illya, though the subject itself was uninteresting, he was completely engrossing all on his own._

_Time seemed to fly as he watched from afar, and it wasn’t long before Illya said a few closing remarks and then dismissed the class. There was scattered applause, which Illya seemed surprised by, and a couple of the students headed straight over to ask him questions about the content. At least, Napoleon assumed that was what they were asking about. Though one of them was twirling long blonde hair in her fingers and seemed to have a completely different objective in mind. Napoleon watched with interest as she waited her turn and then approached Illya, smiling shyly. The Russian didn’t return the smile but his customary glower softened somewhat – another thing Napoleon had observed; he was unfailing polite to women._

_Napoleon was too far away to hear what they were saying but it was fairly obvious that whatever attempts she was making were going straight over Illya’s head. After a none-too-subtle slide of her hand down his arm failed to elicit any kind of reaction, she gave up and flounced over to her friends who were giggling loudly._

_“Not your type either?” Napoleon asked casually when Illya met him at the back door._

_“What?” Illya frowned, the tension seeping back into his shoulders._

_“Never mind.” Napoleon mentally cursed himself for managing to ruin the other man’s mood within three seconds of opening his mouth. “Nice lecture. Do you do this often?”_

_“No.” Illya studied him guardedly. “Mostly I watch. It is good to keep updated on advances in science.”_

_Napoleon nodded, unsure of the depth of camaraderie between them, and offered, “you must have learnt all that somewhere. Did you study?”_

_“Yes.” Illya’s pronunciation softened, his guard lowering at the legitimate inquiry. “At the Sorbonne, in France. I have PhD in Quantum Mechanics.” **[iv]**_

_Napoleon whistled. “That takes time. Years. How old were you when you joined the KGB?”_

_“Twenty.” Illya crossed his arms and Napoleon wondered if it was an unconscious defensive gesture. “Before that I served in the Navy for mandatory two years.”_

_“Are you secretly forty?” Napoleon asked incredulously, only partly joking. “How on earth do you fit all that into thirteen years?”_

_“Thirty-one.” Illya corrected and then hesitated, blue eyes searching Napoleon’s for any hidden agenda. He finally added quietly, “and thirteen years is time enough for a man driven by his family’s shame.”_

_The rawness in his voice hit an uncomfortable note in Napoleon, who could never remain serious for longer than it took to convince a mark of his innocence._

_“Wow Peril,” he clapped the Russian on the shoulder. “You got it all, didn’t you? Brains, brawn,_ and _beauty.”_

_Illya frowned, his gaze dropping to the hand on his shoulder. “Is that a joke?”_

_“No. I meant it.” For a moment Napoleon was afraid he’d gone too far, but then Illya’s lips curved in his subtle smile._

_“Then thank you.”_

 

 

[i] “When you’ve got it, you’ve got it; I’ve got it.” Quote from the episode ‘The Candidate’s Wife Affair’.

[ii] I’m assuming the car Gaby and Napoleon drive at the beginning of the movie is a baby blue Triumph in reference to the original TV series…but I don’t know a thing about cars, so it might just be the same colour.

[iii] Based off of an interview with original TV actor David McCallum where he said, “nobody knows what Illya Kuryakin does when he goes home”.

[iv] Based on the information given about Illya Kuryakin from the TV show. <http://www.manfromuncle.org/kcretro4.htm>


	2. Chapter 2

New York, 1971

It was probably testament to how bad he looked that he didn’t even need to open his mouth. Gaby’s eyes filled with tears as she took in his disheveled appearance and she swayed into the door and held it tight for support. He waited on the threshold; his own eyes dry but his chest tight as if gripped by an unseen hand. The moment was almost unbearable but the sound of Gaby’s harsh breathing and the occasional sharp sob kept him grounded in reality. Napoleon would have attempted to comfort her but he felt like he’d been completely drained and had nothing to offer but his physical presence. Empty womanizing shell that he was, he didn’t know if any gesture on his part would be welcomed, or spurned as insincere or opportunistic. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Gaby solved the problem for him by attempting to dry her tears with the back of one hand and gesturing for him to come inside with the other. He walked past her into the chic apartment and then followed her over to her cream couch, sitting when she gestured for him to do so. She sat next to him, folding her legs up and leaning against his shoulder.

“I thought I was prepared,” she said softly. Her voice was steady, an admirable feat. “But how can you prepare for something like that?”

Napoleon said nothing. Her weight against his shoulder was a small comfort, one that he was intimately familiar with. Had she been any other woman – or indeed, any other person – he might have tried to bury his grief, his rage, and his self-recrimination beneath the scent of her skin, the heat of her around him, engulfing him.

But it was Gaby who was bunching small hands into the material of his jacket, and it was Illya they were both thinking about. The very idea seemed heinous – a grave insult to the memory of, at the very least, a dear friend – so much so that he doubted he would have been able to take advantage of any opportunity presented to him, had he even wanted to.

Illya had broken him, finally.

Would that he was there to pick up the pieces.

 

_California, 1967_

_“This will never work.” Napoleon declared unequivocally. “Peril will leap three feet in the air every time I touch him.” He paused, “and then he’ll strangle me for good measure. Just assign someone else.”_

_Illya’s expression darkened, and he looked positively murderous. “I am professional.” He growled. “I can handle mission.”_

_“Can you?” Napoleon challenged. “I can see the vein ticking in your forehead even now. I don’t have to look at your hands to see you’re five seconds away from a psychotic break.”_

_“Because you insist on doubting my professionalism.” Illya’s accent had thickened, his voice guttural._

_“No one would dare question your goddamned professionalism,” Napoleon snapped, exasperated. “What I’m questioning is your ability to pretend to be my_ lover _for an entire evening that_ doesn’t _end in dismemberment.”_

_There was fury mounting in Illya’s expression – and Napoleon felt a thrill of danger, certain they were going to come to blows – and then the storm seemed to blow over without warning._

_“I will not.” Illya said simply and then clarified, “dismember you.”_

_Napoleon felt a jolt of panic but couldn’t identify the cause. He needed Illya to be replaced by someone, anyone, else. There was danger in them pretending to be lovers; a danger that he would go too far, or not far enough. A danger that he would reveal his hand to a partner whose cards he could not predict. Illya would be acting as his lover, touching him, feeding false hope to a desire he had determined not to pursue. Napoleon had never been one for practicing self-restraint, but he had attached far too much value to his developing friendship with the Russian to risk screwing it up for carnal gratification. He could fulfill such needs elsewhere and admire from afar._

_“I can see you don’t want to do it.” Napoleon tried, keeping his expression deliberately indifferent._

_“That is of no consequence.” Illya replied with such an elegant non-answer that Napoleon had to admire it, even though it meant he could glean nothing of the other man’s intentions from the words. “It has never been before, and it will not be now.”_

_The silence that followed his pronouncement was tense with implications Napoleon wasn’t keen to consider._

_“Listen, Peril-“ he started._

_“No, Cowboy, you listen.” Illya interrupted him. “It is you who are resistant to this mission. You have protested from beginning but blamed it on assumptions about me you have not bothered to clarify. It is clear you have issue with me. If that is real concern, then fine, but take responsibility for your own problems. Do not foist them onto me.”_

_Napoleon was momentarily lost for words – a state he almost never found himself in. He hadn’t really expected Illya to call him out on it, despite the fact that the Russian actually hadn’t protested the mission at all. He’d just assumed Illya wouldn’t want to do it, that he wouldn’t want to touch Napoleon with a ten-foot pole, let alone his bare hands._

_“I don’t have an issue with you,” Napoleon said finally. Illya’s words had not lessened the sense of danger imminent in the mission, but they had provided a new perspective – one he had not previously considered._

_“Well gentleman, are we sorted?” Waverly raised an eyebrow, observing from his seat on the small military plane. When both men nodded without fuss he clapped his hands together. “That’s the ticket. Now, the only time the target will be alone – without his private army of ex-military men – is when he is engaged in, ah, coitus. Therefore you will enter the club as lovers, scope out the room, find the target and then you will proceed to, ahem, solicit sex from him.”_

_“Both of us?” Illya asked incredulously, “at same time?”_

_“Well I do need both of you in the room with him,” Waverly remarked dryly. “Now there’s no need to go through with the act once you’ve got him alone, of course. Just bop him over the head and ferry him to the extraction point, and it’s that simple.”_

_“What if he does not wish for both of us?” Illya persisted._

_“Oh come now, Kuryakin. Two handsome gents like yourselves, he’ll be falling over himself.”_

…

_“I still think we need backup plan.” Illya said, eyeing the establishment warily. “He may not want both.”_

_“Just do your part Peril,” Napoleon clapped him on the shoulder. “He’ll be interested. Threesomes are fun.”_

_Illya shook his head, ignoring the jibe. “Is foolish to be so heavily guarded, and yet enter a room alone and outnumbered.”_

_Napoleon tended to agree, but he wasn’t exactly going to say so. Still, he was confident enough in his abilities – and Illya’s were suitably passable – that he was not overly concerned. Illya was attractive, even when he scowled, and with his height, blonde hair, and blue eyes it was highly likely he would be quite popular – if anyone could work up the courage to approach him. Napoleon hadn’t managed to get the Russian into a suit – he’d argued it simply wasn’t necessary – but had introduced variety into Illya’s wardrobe in the form of a deep green sweater-vest, cream pressed shirt, brown bow-tie and lighter-than-usual grey slacks._

_Napoleon himself had gone for more of an eye-catching, peacock look, with a red and grey striped blazer, white pants and shirt, and a crisp navy bow tie._

_“Are you ready?” Illya asked dryly, “or would you like to preen some more?”_

_“You’re awfully chipper,” Napoleon noted._

_“Just getting into character,” Illya replied with an excellent American accent._

_“That is disturbing.” Napoleon eyed his partner, “and you should smile more – but not like that. That’s terrifying. Less teeth.”_

_Illya scowled at him._

_“Close enough.” Napoleon strode out of the shadows; confident the Russian would follow him. He did, without missing a beat, and the two of them strolled over to the entrance of the secret club. Both of them were very inefficiently patted down by two security officers – though Napoleon was glad he’d convinced Illya not to wear his holster, as they certainly would have found that – who seemed far more interested in copping a feel than searching for concealed weaponry. Illya bore it stoically with no sign of temper, and Napoleon breathed a mental sigh of relief._

_Once inside he drew closer to the Russian until their shoulders were touching, and hands brushing together as they walked. He wanted them to look familiar, but not intense, so he didn’t think anything more obvious was necessary at that point. Illya was solid heat beside him, in character and unresisting which made Napoleon eminently curious as to what he might be able to get away with. It had the potential to be a very dangerous game, one with high – almost too high – risks but promising rewards._

_The ‘secret’ club was little more than a lavishly furnished room with alcohol-service. There were a number of booths along one wall, a small dance floor and roped off private rooms adjacent to the bar. It was decently crowded; all of the booths taken and most of the extra tables and chairs that littered the back. The dance floor was alive with writhing bodies, some almost indistinguishable from others by virtue of their closeness._

_Illya stiffened beside him. It wasn’t obvious, but Napoleon could feel the tension in the way he held his shoulders. Lifting a hand to touch his arm, Napoleon directed the Russian’s attention to him and raised an eyebrow questioningly._

_Illya shook his head subtly, refusing to enlighten him, then returned to scanning the room. Napoleon, thinking they would be less suspicious sitting down, dropped the inquiry and took Illya’s hand. Illya glanced back at him then with an unreadable expression, but wordlessly followed his lead to one of the tables at the back of the room. He picked the one with the best vantage point and sat himself down with his back to the wall. Illya chose the seat adjacent to him, angling it so he could better see the room – a move which had the added effect of placing them closer together._

_“Spot him?” Napoleon invaded Illya’s personal space, leaning over so the quiet words could be heard over the noise of the other occupants._

_Illya shook his head. “Either we have beaten him here, or he is in private room.”_

_Napoleon surveyed the private rooms. Two were in use, but neither had a cluster of guards stationed outside. He could only hope the target was in fact late, and hadn’t invited his guards into the room with him – if that was the case, it could prove problematic for their extraction strategy. Moving his gaze to the bar, Napoleon noticed a light-haired man staring quite obviously in his direction. When their eyes met the man raised his drink slowly, never once looking away, and winked. The man was decently attractive and it seemed a shame to pass him up, but it wouldn’t aid the mission in any way and it certainly wouldn’t benefit his relations with Illya._

_Napoleon smiled at the man, friendly but not inviting, and then returned his attention to Illya as if he’d just been drawn into conversation._

_“Talk to me.” He rested his elbows on the table and leaned fractionally towards the other man._

_“About what?” Illya’s brow furrowed. He had also rested his arms on the table, fingers interlocked._

_“Anything,” Napoleon laughed as if he’d said something vaguely amusing. “It looks more natural.”_

_“The target is not here.” Illya pointed out._

_“He’s not the only person we have to convince.” Napoleon decided to bite the bullet and brushed his hand up Illya’s arm, then gently disentangled the Russian’s fingers so he could interlock his own with them. “And smile at me, please. You’re going to ruin my reputation.”_

_“How would I do this? What reputation?” Illya asked skeptically, but did as he had asked. The smile looked unnatural on his face, though Napoleon supposed that was more due to his own perception of the other man than the believability of the expression. Probably._

_“My reputation.” Napoleon closed the distance between them to whisper in his ear, “of being good at seduction. You don’t look at all interested.”_

_Illya tensed, but didn’t move away. “Maybe I am just not obvious about it,” he said hypothetically._

_The response was another thing Napoleon could add to the puzzle his partner was proving to be. Little things that didn’t quite add up to the stereotype Napoleon had rashly assigned to him. It was unusual for Napoleon, but he wanted to peel back the layers and expose the other man’s true nature. Illya had depth to his character, where all Napoleon had was smoke and mirrors. The Russian didn’t need to be flashy to attract attention; God knew he’d attracted Napoleon’s easily enough. It was almost like an addiction for him. Peeling layers, pushing buttons, listening for the click of tumblers in a chamber, waiting to see if he could crack the lock – confident in his abilities, yet doubting his success._

_If Illya was the slightest bit interested, then Napoleon knew he could have him. The question was what he would lose or destroy in the process. Napoleon had people, but they were never his to keep. Relationships were like books. They only kept his interest for so long, and then it was time to put them back on the shelf and find another. Napoleon didn’t know a thing about Illya’s approach to relationships, but he would have bet good money it didn’t align with his own._

_He had no safe response to the Russian’s earlier comment, so he ignored it and continued his own point._

_“For example, your body language.” He tapped Illya’s shoulder, then his knee. “Is telling anyone who cares to look that you’re only tolerating me.”_

_“Is not inaccurate.” Illya muttered, but there was no heat to his words._

_The confirmation hurt a little more than Napoleon cared to admit so he buried the thought and moved swiftly away from it._

_“You chose to take this mission, Peril, so just do your part, will you?” The words came out far sharper, and far more genuine, than he had intended. He quickly covered with a tight smile as Illya’s eyes widened just enough to show he was surprised._

_“I did not mean-“ Illya started, but Napoleon interrupted him._

_“I’m going to get us some drinks.” He disentangled his hand from Illya’s and rose smoothly to his feet. “I think we both need to loosen up.”_

_With a bright smile he touched Illya’s shoulder and leaned in as if to ask his drink order. “When I leave,” he muttered, “try not to look happy about it.”_

_Straightening, he moved away and towards the sidewall so that he could edge around the dance floor without getting dragged into it. He determinedly didn’t look back behind him to see if Illya had followed his instructions. The bar was busy but he managed to attract the attention of a bartender to order himself a Manhattan and Illya a Moscow Mule, partly because of the Vodka, and partly because his partner was being fairly mulish. It was par for the course though, really. He paid for the drinks when the bartender slid them his way and then thanked him._

_A man jostled him as he moved to pick up Illya’s drink, with the likely intent of catching his attention. Napoleon glanced to the side to see the light-haired man he’d ignored before. With green eyes, tanned skin, and defined cheekbones he was certainly attractive. Though despite his warm expression, Napoleon could sense insincerity in the way the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes._

_“Well hi there.” The man leaned in close, his gaze fixed on Napoleon’s mouth. “I was hoping I’d get a chance to talk to you.”_

_Irritation flared in his gut but never made it beyond there. With a smile that felt pasted on – though he knew, from copious hours in front of the mirror, that it was flawless – he turned to face the man, leaving the Moscow Mule on the counter. “And now you have.” He turned his expression apologetic and motioned to the table Illya was seated at, “I’d love to stay and chat, but as you can see someone’s waiting for me.”_

_“He looks otherwise occupied,” the man smirked._

_Napoleon involuntarily turned to look and saw that Illya was indeed being chatted up, though the brave soul didn’t appear to be having any luck with him. As he watched, somewhat startled by a flare of irrational jealousy, he felt the man reach behind him and – mistakenly, it would later turn out – thought he was still trying to garner his interest. The man pulled back guiltily as he turned, and sighed dramatically._

_“Sure you aren’t interested?”_

_“Perhaps another time,” Napoleon lied. He picked up Illya’s drink and left the counter. By the time he reached the table, Illya had successfully rid himself of the unwanted admirer. Napoleon placed the Moscow Mule in front of the other man and then sat down and sipped his Manhattan._

_Illya looked down at the drink, and then back up at Napoleon, tapped his fingers on the table once and then sighed. “You were right-”_

_“Don’t worry about it, Peril. Drink up.” Napoleon took another sip of his Manhattan and gestured for Illya to follow suit._

_“What is this?” Illya asked, reluctantly eyeing the glass._

_“Moscow Mule,” Napoleon said casually. Before Illya could get offended, he added. “It has Vodka in it.”_

_Illya’s expression lightened at the pronouncement and he drank some without further protest. He wrinkled his nose after the first sip, but then shrugged and took another._

_After ten minutes of Napoleon trying fruitlessly to elicit more than three words per question from his partner’s mouth, Illya had managed half of his drink and there was a flushed look to his face, cheeks pink and eyes a little glassy._

_Napoleon had finished his own drink, but it usually took a great deal more alcohol to get him in any kind of state. He was taken completely by surprise when Illya leaned into him with a smile that looked neither fake nor forced. The Russian had only had one drink, and while Vodka was strong, it wasn’t_ that _strong, so Napoleon knew he couldn’t be intoxicated. Perhaps he had just loosened up a bit and, having admitted Napoleon was right, was playing into the charade. It was about time._

_Napoleon wished he knew what he could get away with under the pretext of the mission, but he didn’t. He would have to play the tenuous game of testing boundaries and pushing buttons until he worked out where the lines were drawn. It was a game he was skilled at, though generally the other player wasn’t someone he had to maintain a long-term partnership with._

_Illya seemed not to be afflicted with any such compunction. He was looking at Napoleon with undisguised – or, more likely, affected – desire, his pupils dilated and his body canted tellingly towards him. If it was an act, it was a very good one. The Russian had clearly taken Napoleon’s comments on body language to heart and acted upon them with his typical ruthless efficiency. Napoleon might have been fooled – in fact he had to try pretty hard not to be – had he been unaware of the circumstances._

_The target – known to U.N.C.L.E as Robert Masters - strolled through the entrance, then, with double the guards Waverly had informed them was typical of a secretive club visit. He was a middle-aged man in his late forties with receding dark brown hair, brown eyes, a slight paunch and an unfortunate taste in clothing. He was also one of T.H.R.U.S.H’s richest contributors. The plan was for Napoleon to garner his interest by bumping into him briefly, then return to Illya where the two would put on a show – with Napoleon shooting suggestive glances at the man – then brush by him on their way to a private room. Based on the dossier he’d read, Napoleon believed the man would almost certainly follow them, and within twenty seconds of observing him, his belief was all but confirmed. He’d dealt with that kind of man before; rich, average looking, entitled. The attention would play into his ego; the idea of two attractive younger men wanting to have sex with him would be irresistible._

_Napoleon turned to Illya, who was as close as the wooden chairs would allow him to be, and placed a hand on his shoulder. He leaned in to whisper into his ear, but Illya shifted as he did so and Napoleon’s lips brushed his cheek. Never one to lose out on an opportunity, Napoleon followed the line of Illya’s cheek to the corner of his mouth, one hand braced on the table and the other digging gently into the other man’s broad shoulder. He pulled back after a moment, quirked a smile, and then made as if to leave to fetch them more drinks – stage one of the plan – but was thwarted when Illya grabbed the front of his blazer and tugged him back. The sheer strength of the move would have had Napoleon tumbling straight into the Russian, had he not been bracing himself on the other man’s shoulder. As it was, he staggered forward several feet until he was close enough to Illya to feel the other man’s breath mingling with his own. Illya’s blue eyes were wide and dark, and his cheeks flushed, as he stared steadily at Napoleon, hand still fisted in his blazer._

_It wasn’t part of the plan, but Napoleon’s self-control had taken far too many hits that evening to be able to resist such a blatant invitation. He closed the gap in a swift move – less controlled than he would normally be, but this, with Illya, had never been an act on his part – and pressed his lips to Illya’s with a deep hunger roiling in his gut. There was an interminable moment where he thought maybe he’d misread the entire situation, but then Illya’s lips parted with a low groan that rippled through Napoleon’s flesh like a potent shiver. The grip on his blazer tightened and Illya growled, a guttural, animalistic, sound that Napoleon felt rumble sensuously across his lips._

_He didn’t know what Illya was thinking with the display, but figured the Russian must have thought it would increase their chances of snaring the target’s attention. Truth be told, he wasn’t really in the right frame of mind to analyze the other man’s actions too deeply. Napoleon pulled back reluctantly, well aware that what he had just done was add gallons of fuel to his desire for the other man – a problem he would have to deal with once they completed the mission. Having tasted the heat of the fire simmering between them, he knew he would no longer be content to admire from afar._

_Napoleon took Illya’s hand, gently loosening the grip on his blazer, and squeezed it warmly before releasing it._

_“Time to shine,” he said quietly._

_Illya gazed at him steadily, lips reddened and cheeks still flushed an endearing pink. His pupils were extremely dilated, almost alarmingly so. The club was dimly lit, but not dark enough to elicit such a reaction. If Napoleon hadn’t known there was absolutely no way Illya was purposefully on drugs, he might have thought his partner was high._

_“Well ‘giddy up’ Cowboy.” Illya said seriously, taking his time pronouncing the phrase, and then laughed delightedly. The resulting sound was light, musical, and hands down the most disturbing thing Napoleon had heard all evening. The clock was ticking on the mission, though, so he had to trust that, whatever the problem, Illya could handle himself. Even though he was now pretty sure his partner had been drugged, and it was undoubtedly his fault. He just hoped it was something innocuous – for his sake, as much as for Illya’s. Just to be safe, he picked up the Moscow Mule only to discover that, at some point, Illya had managed to drink the rest. He sniffed the glass but whatever had been slipped in the drink had probably been colourless, odourless, and tasteless – or Illya would have known something was amiss – and was far more likely to be intended to put Illya into a state of easy suggestibility – based on his current state - rather than to incapacitate or kill him._

_Illya clicked his tongue in an obviously encouraging manner, clearly amused by the cowboy metaphor, and made a hand gesture as if he was herding a horse._

_The sight was unfairly comical and Napoleon laughed, unable to help himself, as he left the man to his own devices. He knew he would need to be swift in getting the target’s attention so that no one could take advantage of Illya’s drugged state while he was alone. Particularly not the person who had drugged him in the first place, though Napoleon had to wonder if he had been the intended target or if the perpetrator had simply not known which drink to spike._

_Robert Masters – the target – was in the process of having his guards oust the occupants of a booth when Napoleon stumbled into him in a manner suggesting mild intoxication. Two guards immediately seized him, one to each arm, and hurled him bodily off of the man._

_“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry.” Napoleon babbled, voice a touch higher than normal. Pouting, he widened his eyes, and then very obviously checked the man out from head to toe. “Or maybe I’m not,” he deepened his voice and smirked lasciviously, flicking his tongue out to trace his bottom lip._

_Robert stared at him, hunger clear in his eyes as they followed the movement. He made a motion for the guards to release Napoleon, which they did immediately and then stepped back as if to give a semblance of privacy._

_“Not at all.” Robert spoke with the manners and cultured accent of someone well educated from birth. “The fault is entirely mine.”_

_Napoleon assessed that the older man was unsure of his intentions, but clearly hooked on his performance, so he thought he’d dangle a little more bait to seal the deal. Wary of the guards, he leaned in and dragged a finger down the target’s shirtfront. “I’m going to get a private room with my lover,” he said playfully. “You should join us. The more the merrier, right?” Then he sauntered past, pausing only to whisper seductively into the shell of Robert’s ear. “I don’t bite you know…unless it’s called for.”_

_Without looking back, he walked over to the bar and asked for a key to a private room. He could feel Robert’s eyes following him, knew the man was assessing him, but made a show of being completely unaware. One of the bartenders handed him a key and pointed to its respective room, then warned him that the time limit was forty-five minutes, after which point someone would boot them out so others could have their turn._

_With the key in hand, Napoleon meandered back to the table – careful to appear mildly intoxicated – and saw, with an inward curse, that the light-haired man who had hit on him before – and likely spiked the Moscow Mule - was making a decidedly unopposed move on Illya. Surprisingly, his first reaction was a surge of irrational jealousy rather than concern for the mission._

_Illya seemed in a worse state than before, and looked completely unconcerned that the man’s hand was resting on his thigh, uncomfortably close – for Napoleon’s taste - to groping him._

_Napoleon strode over, jealously and rage simmering in his gut and tugging at his self-control, and sculpted his expression into indulgent annoyance._

_“Excuse me,” he said drily. “That would be my lover you’re drooling over.”_

_The light-haired man looked up at him with sly satisfaction. “I don’t see him complaining.”_

_“Mmm,” Napoleon raised an eyebrow. “I think his drink was a little stronger than usual.”_

_The implication was clear that he knew what the other man was up to and, with a dark scowl and a derogatory slur, the man withdrew his hand from Illya’s thigh and backed off._

_Illya seemed unconcerned with that, too, only rolling his head around to look at Napoleon with a glazed expression._

_“Cowboy! I have miss you. Miss? I have-” He frowned and then repeated his convoluted thoughts in Russian._

_He was so clearly out of it, Napoleon considered abandoning the mission altogether. His partner was going to be absolutely no help in the extraction of the target, and was more likely to be a severe liability as the odds of him having any kind of capacity to think or act rationally were incredibly slim._

_Abandoning the mission, though, would mean total failure as they would be unable to try again – Robert never used the same sexual partner twice. Waverly’s brief about the mission being ‘absolutely vital to the dissolution of T.H.R.U.S.H’ came back to him and he realized, with weary resignation, that failure wasn’t an option. Illya would almost certainly understand._

_If he didn’t act quickly he knew he would lose Robert’s attention - if he hadn’t already done so via the altercation with the light-haired man – so he bent down towards Illya, caressed his cheek, and kissed him. Then he drew back, taking the Russian’s hand and pulling him to his feet. Thankfully Illya didn’t resist, or Napoleon wasn’t sure he actually would have managed. Illya seemed steady enough on his feet, balance uncompromised, and he looked at Napoleon with quiet expectation. Whatever drug he’d been given had left him totally compliant – a state so foreign to the Russian it was anathema to him. It made Napoleon incredibly uneasy to see him like that, knowing exactly how he would feel being rendered such in Illya’s place. The complete loss of control would be nothing short of shameful to Illya when he came back to himself._

_“Come with me Illya,” he led his partner along the edge of the dance floor, towards the private room. The sound of the other man’s first name on his tongue was intriguing, a familiarity he never indulged in due to their consistent relationship of amiable rivalry. Illya didn’t comment, just followed him soundlessly, a Russian shadow even when drugged._

_When they reached the entrance to the private room, Napoleon turned to find Robert staring at them both from his booth on the other side. Napoleon winked at him, then twisted the key into the lock and opened the door. He led Illya inside and closed the door, but didn’t lock it. They needed to be convincing so that Robert would come in and lock the door behind him, so Napoleon led Illya to the bed and then pushed him down onto it. Illya sat, unresisting, eyes fixed unsettlingly on Napoleon’s own. The power he had in that moment over the taller, stronger, man was heady. Had he been a lesser man, he might have taken what he wanted from Illya, then, knowing that the Russian would give it to him without question. But he couldn’t really see the allure in the knowledge that nothing was freely given, that anything taken would only be stolen – it would never truly be his._

_Napoleon had never shied away from theft – it was his calling, his art form – but this he didn’t want to steal. He wanted Illya, but he wanted him capable and willing and relinquishing control to him, allowing him to take, giving to him, of his own volition._

_He wanted Illya to see him as something worth wanting. Perhaps even as something worth keeping, though it wasn’t a thought he was keen to entertain._

_Napoleon gently pushed Illya down onto his back and straddled him, determined to do only what was strictly necessary to perpetuate the ruse. He braced his hands on Illya’s firm chest, feeling the muscles loose and relaxed beneath his touch. Leaning in he brushed a kiss against soft lips and fought his desire to deepen it, to plunge in and douse some of the fire that was consuming him. Illya’s hands brushed along his thighs, sending a frisson of pleasure straight to his groin._

_The door opened and he didn’t need to look behind him to know it was Robert._

_“You started without me.” The man remarked, though he didn’t sound put out._

_“Come join us.” Napoleon invited, watching the reflections in Illya’s spacy gaze._

_“I think I’ll watch, first.” Robert closed the door, but didn’t lock it._

_“Suit yourself.” Napoleon cursed him inwardly. An unlocked door and eight guards standing watch outside meant he’d have to knock the guy unconscious without making any sounds that couldn’t be attributed to raucous sex._

_One of Illya’s hands migrated up towards the curve of Napoleon’s buttocks and pulled him closer, the other moved to tug ineffectually at his blazer. Napoleon glanced down at him – pupils still unnaturally dilated, cheeks flushed, and sweat beading at his temples – and wondered how long the effects of the drug would last, and what condition it would leave him in when the high faded. Pushing aside the concern, he leaned in to kiss Illya again and then ran his hands down the other man’s broad chest, undoing the buttons of the green sweater-vest and exposing the cream shirt underneath._

_He thought maybe if he took his time, Robert would become bored and would decide to speed things up by joining in, thereby bringing himself close enough to be neutralized noiselessly._

_Towering over Illya was a new experience, one that Napoleon found he quite liked and, in his current state, the Russian seemed to enjoy it too. Illya arched his head back against the mattress, exposing the long line of his neck, and shifted under Napoleon’s weight in a move that brushed against his groin. Napoleon groaned in a slightly exaggerated fashion and leant down to mouth at the junction between Illya’s chin and neck before following the line of his throat down to the base of his collarbone. Illya was making ungodly sounds that were barely audible, but Napoleon could feel the vibrations against his tongue. His pants were growing tighter by the second, but he maintained the disconnect between his brain and the sensations, not allowing himself to be swept away in the moment. He needed to remain in control._

_Slow and steady clearly wasn’t working on Robert – and they only had so much time – so Napoleon decided to speed things up and make the man feel like he was missing out._

_He undid the buttons on Illya’s cream shirt and exposed the Russian’s exquisitely muscled chest then slid his hands along defined abdominal muscles, feeling the ridges against the soft pads of his fingers. He threw in a few groans for effect, undid the top button of Illya’s slacks, and then leaned back to divest himself of his blazer. Illya lay underneath him, between his knees, tranquil and completely content to let Napoleon run the show. He started to mumble something decidedly more Russian than English and Napoleon bent down swiftly to kiss the words from his lips. It wouldn’t do to alert Robert to the fact that one of the occupants of the room – although clearly the least threatening at that point – was not the American civilian he appeared to be._

_Napoleon was relieved when Robert finally spoke up, but the words made his blood run cold._

_“Turn him over.”_

_Napoleon glanced behind him. Robert’s eyes were fixed on them, his pupils blown with lust, and his hand down his pants._

_“Not going to join in?” Napoleon affected nonchalance, but he was anything but. He wasn’t prepared to take the show any further, not with Illya unable to consent in any valid fashion. Even though he knew his partner, were he in his right mind, would consent – anything for the mission – it still felt wrong._

_“Oh I will.” Robert said hungrily, “but you first. Fuck him, and then I’ll fuck you.”_

_The language made Napoleon’s blood boil and the dislike he felt for the man intensified. The words made the act seem base and bestial, nothing more than animals rutting in the ground for gratification, with no care or concern for the other. Sex, to Napoleon, was an expression of physical art like dancing, or fighting. It was a way of knowing another person at their most exposed, their most vulnerable. It was a form of manipulation he used ruthlessly because it had such emotional and intellectual connections, but he never degraded his marks in such a manner as to label them mere vessels of gratification._

_Mission be damned, there was no way he was degrading Illya in such a way for the enjoyment of an insignificant, petty, little man._

_Said insignificant, petty, little man made an irritated sound. “I said, turn him over.”_

_“No, I don’t think so.” Napoleon said casually, as if in conversation. “You’re not exactly in control here, my friend.”_

_“Oh I think I am,” Robert smirked. “You saw how many men I have outside. I’d only need to call in a few. The more the merrier – isn’t that what you said?”_

_Napoleon acted cowed by the words and turned back around to Illya as if following instructions. He grabbed Illya’s shoulder, brain calculating various amendments to the extraction plan and chances of success, and absently noted the Russian was sweating._

_“That’s it.” Robert took a step closer. “Turn him over, then ride him hard.”_

_“Like Cowboy.” Illya laughed suddenly and then his eyes flickered open and his expression shifted from loose relaxation to a look uncomfortably close to fear. His eyes were glazed and unfocused, not looking at Napoleon but rather seeing straight through him._

_“_ _Стыд оплачивается. Вы не можете взять его_ _._ _“_ _He said wildly and then shoved Napoleon off, with surprising force given his previous compliancy, and leapt to his feet. Napoleon translated the words to mean ‘the shame is paid for. You cannot take him.’ The way Illya was sweating, trembling, and completely unfocused yet searching the room for unseen assailants suggested he was hallucinating – yet another pleasant effect of whatever he’d been drugged with._

_“Russian?” Robert asked, alarmed, and then opened his mouth presumably to call for his guards. Napoleon launched himself at the man and clapped a hand over his mouth and an elbow around his windpipe. He held, hard, in a parody of the move Illya had used against him on their first day as partners, until Robert slumped unconscious in his hold. He hadn’t shut him up soon enough, though, and the door burst open._

_In a blindingly fast move, Illya whipped out a gun from somewhere – Napoleon didn’t even know where he had managed to stash it – and fired. There was a sharp pain in Napoleon’s side but he ignored it, dropping Robert and hurling his own body at the door to slam it shut when the first guard stumbled over and knocked the others back from the threshold._

_Napoleon had palmed the key when he’d put Robert into a headlock, so he produced it quickly and locked the door._ _“Nice aim, Peril.” He muttered, feeling his side and wincing. The bullet seemed to have only scraped past him on its way to the unlucky guard, but the wound was bleeding shallowly and staining his white shirt a dark red._

_“Cowboy,” Illya said slowly. “You have been shot.” His hands were trembling still, sweat slicking his brow and running down his bare chest._

_“Yes, thank you, Peril.” Napoleon stepped away from the door, knowing they had less than a minute before someone broke through it. “I noticed.”  He eyed his partner carefully, assessing his condition. It was possible they could still finish the mission. “Can you carry the target?”_

_“Of course.” Illya nodded, seemingly cognizant, and then his eyes rolled upwards and he collapsed in a boneless heap on the carpet. Over two hundred pounds of solid Russian muscle that Napoleon was going to have to somehow drag out of the window and down the street to the extraction point. Never mind the target._

_Napoleon sighed. “Great.” He rolled his sleeves up and bent down to grab Illya by the shoulders. “This is why they invented back-up,” he told the room at large. Moving swiftly, he dragged the Russian over to the window. He unlatched it one-handed and slid the screen aside; mentally thanking whomever the architect had been for placing it no more than one meter from the ground, and that the room itself was on the ground floor – although that was the result of decent planning on U.N.C.L.E’s part._

_Illya was by no means light, but Napoleon was by no means weak – despite being somewhat less physically inclined than his partner. He managed to drag Illya up to the windowsill and push him through, though the Russian would have a killer headache when he finally woke up._ _It rankled him to leave the target behind when he was unconscious on the floor – particularly considering the trouble it had been to get him there - but he knew there was no way he could drag both men without being shot in the back. Illya might have been able to – the man could throw a motorbike, after all – but that kind of heavy lifting just wasn’t in Napoleon’s wheelhouse. Besides, if he left the target behind there was a slight chance that no one would chase them._ _Napoleon retrieved Illya’s dropped gun and switched the safety on, then tucked it safely in the back of his pants. He then climbed through the window and dropped easily to the ground._

_Illya was still very much unconscious, so he hooked his arms under the Russian’s armpits and dragged him, fast as he could, around the corner of the building to get out of the line of sight of the window._ _He could hear gunshots and shouting and the sound of at least three sets of feet pursuing them so he hid Illya in some nearby bushes against the wall of the building and hoped anyone who saw him would assume him drunk and passed out. Drawing the gun, he clicked the safety off and ran back towards the other side of the building. He shot one of the pursuers in the chest as they rounded the corner. Four others ducked for cover and then returned fire as he took off, running in a zigzagging fashion down the dark streets surrounding the building._ _It wasn’t the worst situation he had found himself in; though it ranked pretty highly up the list given he’d not only failed the mission but he’d had to leave his partner unconscious in some bushes. In addition he was being pursued – fairly relentlessly, in fact – by four heavily armed men, all with dreadful aim, and yet he had_ still _been shot, and by his own partner, no less._ _It he was being honest, it was a complete disaster, but all he could think was that Illya would never again trust his word where alcohol was concerned and dear merciful God he hoped the Russian wouldn’t remember a thing._

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

New York, 1971

Gaby didn’t let him stew in silence for long. She had never been the kind of person to wallow in self-pity or grief and functioned in a state of healthy optimism tempered by cultivated realism. The German civilian-turned-spy was a strong, resilient, woman with more backbone than many of the military men Napoleon had worked with during his time in the army. Gaby had been in the game for far fewer years than both Napoleon and Illya, but had taken to the espionage life with a natural instinct that had quickly made her their equal in all but the physical aspects – but it was a rare man, or woman, who was Illya’s equal in that regard.  

Of course, it was a rare man, or woman, who was Illya’s equal in any regard, in Napoleon’s eyes at least.

When Gaby spoke her voice was firm and unwavering, though her eyes were red and her lips pale and thin. “Tell me what happened.”

“You know most of it,” Napoleon said quietly. Years of practice in maintaining composure no matter the circumstances meant that his voice was equally strong and no indication of his internal state.

“Tell me anyway.” Gaby insisted. “I need to hear it. From the beginning.”

“The beginning?” Napoleon laughed, though it was devoid of any real humour. “I doubt I even know when it began. Peril never told me.”

“He told you _something_ ,” she argued. “The KGB isn’t in the habit of executing its operatives on a whim.”

“I can’t comment on that.” Napoleon said bitterly, “but Peril wasn’t exactly forthcoming with me. You knew him, Gaby, you couldn’t beat information out of him with words or a stick.”

“You forget that I know _you_ , too.” Gaby pointed out, “and you’re full of bullshit.” She drew back from where she was leaning on his shoulder and fixed him with her most pointed glare. “Illya told you what was going on, perhaps not in so many words, but you knew. What I don’t necessarily understand is why you’re in denial about it.” Her sharp brown eyes narrowed, “do you want me to guess?”

“Not particularly,” Napoleon sighed. “I don’t think I can handle your special brand of insight at the moment.”

“Then talk, or you’ll have to buck up and handle it.” Gaby said unsympathetically.

“You are just plain mean,” Napoleon grumbled.

“Talk.”

_Poland, 1968_

_If there was one thing Napoleon had learned during his partnership with Illya, it was that when the Russian said, ‘I have bad feeling about this,’ the universe inevitably conspired to prove him right. Napoleon wasn’t particularly religious or spiritual but he understood well enough that you didn’t have to believe in a thing for it to interfere with your life._

_Illya was neither religious nor reasonable which was why he continually ignored Napoleon’s opinion on the matter._

_Which was why Napoleon was inclined to blame their current situation entirely on the Russian’s most recent utterance of the dreaded phrase._

_Chained spread-eagled to two metal posts, he rolled his head around to look at his partner who was in a similar predicament._

_“You couldn’t resist, could you?”_

_Illya was on his knees, head bowed, and possibly unconscious. The sheer level of force their captors had required to subdue him had been immense and, in the end, it had been a coldly uttered ‘Solo, tell the thick Russian to stand down or we’ll all get a little more intimate with your insides’ that did it. Illya had surrendered, despite Napoleon’s refusal to say any such thing, and five men had descended upon him with vengeful glee._

_That had been hard to watch: Illya being savagely beaten and unable to defend himself because Napoleon’s life was on the line. He felt unworthy; though he knew he would do the same without hesitation._

_The seconds ticked by with no response from the Russian and Napoleon’s guilt intensified._

_“Peril?” Napoleon questioned sharply._

_“Quiet.” Illya muttered. “Your shrill voice offends my ears.”_

_“My deepest and sincerest apologies.” Napoleon drawled. “Would I be permitted to inquire as to your condition?”_

_“No.” Illya said flatly. “Enough talk.”_

_Napoleon rolled his eyes and fell silent. He watched Illya, who had returned to glaring at the floor. The chains were too short for the Russian to stand and Napoleon concluded that their captors felt safer with him closer to ground level. He looked terrible. Blood was matting in his blonde hair; there were bruises along the visible side of his face and a deep double handprint around his neck where one of the men had throttled him after his surrender. Napoleon couldn’t tell what other parts of him were beaten or bruised under his clothing, but it was a safe bet that most of him was._

_The thought made his blood boil. Anger and rage were emotions he had plenty of experience with, but it was rare that either ever made it to the surface. Repression was just another integral part of his skillset._

_This was why he hated silence. Silence inevitably led to introspection and Napoleon wasn’t overly given to introspection, it made him feel hollow._

_He started whistling._

_“Must. You. Make. Noise?” Illya growled, lifting his head to glare fiercely._

_Napoleon noted that his lip was split._

_“Yes, Peril, I must.” Napoleon replied airily. “If you won’t entertain me, I shall have to entertain myself.”_

_“All I will entertain is the thought of sewing your lips shut.” Illya said darkly._

_“Violent.” Napoleon noted, “and, also, kinky.”_

_Illya sighed. “You have only one track in mind. Must be dull.”_

_“It’s just a one-track mind.” Napoleon corrected with a wink, “and my one track is all kinds of interesting. I could show you just how interesting, if you want.”_

_“From over there?” Illya snorted, and raised an eyebrow. “Is unlikely.”_

_“Oh trust me Peril,” Napoleon smirked. “Distance is no obstacle.”_

_Illya shook his head, bemused. “Perhaps other time, Cowboy. Now, we have bigger problem.”_

_The door clicked open and a short elderly man shuffled into the room in a pristine lab coat with large frame glasses and wispy flyaway hair._

_“I don’t think that’s a_ bigger _problem, per se.” Napoleon remarked, taking Illya’s words literally._

_He recognized the elderly man from a photo in the dossier Waverly had given him prior to the mission. The man’s name was Dr. Kurt Kasprzak, a Polish national raised and educated in Berlin. Kurt had served in the German military during World War 2 but had been wounded in battle and discharged shortly after the war began._

_A brilliant mind, he had then studied medicine at the University of Freiburg, before eventually obtaining his PhD in Behavioral Psychology from the University of Berlin. Shortly after, in 1950, he had immigrated to the United States where he had conducted various experiments in psychology that closely bordered the lines between ethical and inhumane. In that time he had written many unpublished papers on the advances made in medicine by the Nazis due to the concentration camps during World War 2, and a number of ‘hypothetical’ psychological thought experiments examining the extremes to which human beings could be pushed to, focusing in particular on the collapse of morality when competing with the natural survival instinct._

_During 1967 he had returned to his birth town in Poland, a return followed closely by unexplained disappearances of animals and citizens – and, most notably, one vacationing British family. U.N.C.L.E believed he was conducting illegal experiments for T.H.R.U.S.H, a suspicion given credence by the number of operatives active around the area, and the man’s close ties to several known associates._

_Five burly men – the same ones who had beaten Illya to the point of unconsciousness – entered the room after the doctor and stood behind him. One of them was carrying a long rusty knife with wickedly serrated edges, which he threw into the middle of the room. The knife clattered against the stone floor and Napoleon felt a flicker of trepidation._

_“Big enough for you now, Cowboy?” Illya asked, a hint of sarcasm in his tone._

_“It’ll do on short notice.” Napoleon replied amiably._

_“This will be most interesting.” Dr. Kasprzak smiled unsettlingly, but did not appear to be addressing them. “I do wonder which of you will break first – you have such a dynamic between you. My money’s on the Russian, of course.” He looked down at a sheaf of papers he was clutching. “Cold, ruthless, family under the thumb of the KGB, unqualified devotion to duty, psychotic breaks leading to a curious lack of impulse control at pivotal moments. A time bomb, I would wager.”_

_Clucking his tongue, he shifted one sheet of paper to the back. “But then we have the American, quite typical for his kind. No attachments, no family, extravagant tastes – suggests an idea of power vested in material possessions, master thief, demonstrated lack of regard for social mores, controlled, manipulative, cold – perhaps even colder than the Russian, no?”_

_Dr. Kasprzak looked up from the files. “I think this will prove a most interesting experiment.”_

_“I will not take part in experiment.” Illya growled, his chains rattling with the pronouncement. Unadulterated fury simmered in his blue eyes, expressed physically in the taut lines of his neck._

_Dr Kasprzak turned his attention to Illya, watery blue eyes flicking along the Russian’s body, assessing._

_“Oh yes, you will,” he said mildly. “A choice not to participate in the experiment is still a choice defined by its parameters. A decision to do nothing, with knowledge of the consequences, is still a decision.” Dr Kasprzak grinned widely. “Though, I think, given the circumstances, that you will not choose to do nothing, but I do so like to be proven wrong about human nature. It does happen from time to time.”_

_Illya snarled inarticulately, the beast of his temper raging at the restraints. He looked capable of ripping the doctor to shreds with his teeth._

_Napoleon found that thought far more arousing than terrifying, which was probably inappropriate. Though no more socially inappropriate than being attracted to a man in the first place, he supposed._

_“Allow me to enlighten you both as to the situation you have found yourselves in.” Dr. Kasprzak ignored Illya, standing mere feet from the Russian, but completely safe in the knowledge that the chains would hold. “Only one of you will leave this room alive. The identity of the dead man, I will leave to you fellows to decide. If, by the end of half an hour, neither of you are dead, then you both will be.”_

_Napoleon kept his face perfectly blank, unwilling to let the doctor have access to his reaction. He might have attempted manipulation of some kind, if he thought anything he said would have any effect. The dossier had included a psychological assessment of the doctor, though, which had made it clear that he was the kind of man that could not be bribed, bought, threated or reasoned with. Beneath the mild unassuming manner lurked a cold and calculating psychopath with no concern for morality or regard for human life._

_“I am most curious to see if this will be a fight for survival, or a display of altruism.”  Dr. Kasprzak paused, “of course, I should mention that self-sacrifice cannot extend to suicide. Naturally, one of you must kill the other. No exceptions.”_

_The doctor nodded to the burly men standing behind him and then left the room without further comment. One of them drew a gun from its holster, walked over to Napoleon and jammed it roughly against the side of his temple. “No sudden movements,” he muttered. “You move, you die.”_

_Napoleon didn’t deign to respond. He waited whilst the man pulled out a key and unlocked the shackles around his wrists and ankles._

_Three men were meanwhile approaching Illya with the kind of caution reserved for an aggressive bull liable to lash out and gore someone without provocation. It seemed they weren’t confident the threat of death was enough to deter him. Napoleon thought, in that moment, it probably wasn’t._

_The man holding the gun to his temple shoved him roughly in Illya’s direction._

_“You unchain him,” the man ordered, handing him the key, and gesturing for the others to stand back. “Try anything and you die.”_

_Napoleon moved forward obligingly towards Illya, wondering what his partner was thinking. Would he attempt to break free, to barrel through the guards to freedom? There were entirely too many with long distance weapons for any chance of success, but Illya wasn’t exactly in the most reasonable state of mind. Still, though he had witnessed terrible acts of destruction caused by Illya’s uncontrollable rage, he had yet to witness an occasion of abject stupidity._

_Illya stared directly at Napoleon, expression inscrutable, as he unlocked the shackles around his wrists. The henchman tapped the gun to the back of Napoleon’s head and then glanced nervously at Illya._

_“I’ll shoot him, and then you, if you try anything.”_

_“You would not have time.” Illya promised and his voice was surprisingly steady given the rest of him was vibrating with anger._

_Visibly cowed, the henchman grasped Napoleon’s shirt collar and pulled him with as he backed slowly towards the door. The man seemed to be using Napoleon as a shield and deterrent all in one convenient package._

_“Should I be offended that they think I’m such a pushover?” Napoleon wondered as the man finally released him, once all the other henchmen were safely out the door, and then bolted through the door and slammed it shut. There was a dull thud as it was locked, and barred._

_“You are pushover.” Illya told him matter-of-factly. The Russian seemed to be getting his anger under wraps, drawing it under his skin to simmer while it would do him no good._

_“Only in comparison to your mulish ways.” Napoleon muttered as he turned to examine the door._

_“I am well aware of your predilection for picking locks, Mr. Solo.” Dr. Kasprzak’s voice echoed from a radio mounted on the wall of the room. “That door cannot be opened from the inside, by any means.”_

_Napoleon turned away from the door without responding and back towards Illya, whose ankles were still shackled. He tried the key in the lock but it didn’t fit._

_“Well that’s a bit of a disadvantage,” he remarked._

_“You would need it.” Illya didn’t seem surprised or even affected by the obvious handicap._

_Napoleon had a basic bump key hidden on the inside of his shirt – which they hadn’t checked, more fool them – but doubted he would have the chance to use it. They were obviously being observed through the mirror mounted on the left wall._

_Illya rose gracefully to his feet, despite the chains, and glanced at the rusty knife lying in the centre of the room._

_“Nice of them to give us weapon,” he remarked._

_“Very hospitable.” Napoleon agreed and then frowned. “Do you think that was for my benefit? Frankly, I’m insulted.”_

_Illya shrugged. “I am superior,” he said simply. “All can see this.” Anger still curled in the depths of his pupils and lined the taut muscles in his arms, but he had leashed it firmly and seemed content to follow Napoleon’s lead. He certainly didn’t look as if he was considering murdering Napoleon in order to secure his own life._

_Napoleon didn’t have a plan, or an escape route, beyond hoping that Gaby had received the radio transmission he’d sent shortly before they’d been captured, and that it had been long enough that she would come looking for them – with backup. If she didn’t, he knew their chances of making it out of the room alive were very slim._

_If no rescue was imminent, then Napoleon knew how it was going to end. Physically, he wasn’t much of a match for Illya though the weapon and freedom of movement would give him a fair advantage. Mentally, though, he wasn’t prepared to try. Illya was no longer his enemy. If he was being honest he hadn’t viewed the Russian in that light since he had stumbled upon him teaching a physics class at the University of New York. Illya had fought hard, against the backdrop of his father’s shame, to rise in the ranks of the KGB, and to be of worth to his home country. He was loyal to the Soviet Union, and nothing would change that, but the years had taught Napoleon that the Russian was firmly dedicated to U.N.C.L.E and all that they had achieved together in the organization’s name._

_If the two loyalties ever conflicted, Napoleon knew he wouldn’t blame Illya for choosing the country of his birth over the organization he’d been all but shoved into service with. Napoleon might have done the same in such a situation had he not been disillusioned with his own country or if he, like Illya, had any family held firmly in the government’s grasp._

_Illya was a survivor and a socialist and Napoleon expected that the Russian would kill him, when no other option presented itself. There was no sense or utility in both of them losing their lives, and Napoleon felt certain the Russian would exact bloody revenge for his death._

_Napoleon looked at Illya, standing quietly with his arms crossed, covered in blood and bruises and yet straight-backed and uncompromising in posture. His expression was resolute; chin raised and set, jaw tense, blue eyes focused on Napoleon._

_Napoleon wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch him with every part of his body that could get close enough. Illya stirred a hunger in Napoleon’s chest that was destined never to be sated, and each time he pushed it back, it seemed more virulent. It was slowly driving him mad; this one thing he wanted, perhaps more than anything he had previously coveted, yet could not bear to steal. Lust was a powerful emotion, though he had never experienced it to such a maddening degree, and the simple fact that he_ had _touched Illya, had tasted his lips, made it all the more worse because the Russian recalled nothing._

_Illya had no memory of that night as the drug he’d been dosed with – Gamma Hydroxybutyrate, as it turned out, or GHB – had left him with complete amnesia. It was equal parts a blessing and a curse._

_It meant there was no residual awkwardness between them, but it also left Napoleon sexually frustrated and unable to enlighten the cause of it as to the reason. He wouldn’t risk their partnership on the knowledge that Illya, when drugged, had seemed more than accepting of his attentions._

_Not for the first time, Napoleon longed to know the thoughts that ran through Illya’s often-impenetrable mind. Those, he would steal, if he could._

_Napoleon estimated that half of their allotted time had elapsed in silence. He wondered if Illya was going to wait until the very last moment to end his life._

_“Well, needs must, I suppose.” Napoleon remarked, to break the silence. He hated silence and he’d be damned if he was going to spend his last moments in its hollowing grasp._

_Illya cocked his head to the side. “You have word order wrong, I think.”_

_“It’s short for the phrase ‘needs must when the Devil drives’.” Napoleon explained and then shrugged. “It means that necessity compels you to do things you don’t want to. It’s just an idiom.”_

_“Idioms.” Illya rolled the word around, as if tasting the potential. “We have idiom in Russia that you would appreciate, Cowboy.” He offered, lips twitching in his understated smile. “_ _Алты́нного во́ра ве́шают, а полти́нного че́ствуют…in your words would be ‘little thieves are hanged, but great ones escape’.”_

_“Which am I?” Napoleon asked quietly._

_“That depends on whether we live through this.” The words were said lightly with as much satire as Illya ever indulged in._

_Napoleon smiled but something in his expression must have given him away because all humour faded from Illya’s expression and his eyes hardened._

_“You think that I will kill you,” the Russian observed flatly and looked away. “Again with the assumptions.”_

_Napoleon felt a sudden stab of guilt at the expression on Illya’s face. It wasn’t obvious, but something in the set of his shoulders and the lines of his brow suggested disappointment, perhaps even regret._

_“You wait for me to betray you,” Illya continued bitterly. “Always you wait; I can see this in your eyes.”_

_Blue eyes pinned Napoleon with raw honesty and he could almost see the guardedness of Illya’s gaze shifting to allow him that glimpse._

_“You will be waiting very long time.”_

New York, 1971

Napoleon sighed, resigned to an interrogation. “1968,” he said.

“Okay, 1968.” Gaby repeated. “Elaborate.”

“The Kasprzak mission. Poland. Abandoned warehouse. You had to rescue us.”

“From the clutches of a mad scientist.” Gaby nodded. “I remember. Illya got stabbed and you were hysterical.” 

“I was not hysterical.” Napoleon said flatly. 

“You were hysterical.” Gaby poked him in the shoulder. “You hovered around him, impeded the medical staff, and kept saying ‘it’s my fault’.”

“It _was_ my fault. I stabbed him.” Napoleon raised an eyebrow, “and I only said that _once_.”

“ _You_ stabbed him?” Gaby honed in on the most salient information.

“He told me to.” At Gaby’s incredulous expression, he added. “You know how Illya’s escape plans always go. Someone gets stabbed. Or shot.”

“Usually him.” Gaby said grimly.  

“That is the Russian way.” Napoleon deadpanned.

Gaby smiled wistfully, her lips thin. “What was the plan?”

“Illya was chained to the floor, so he wasn’t going anywhere. We had to get someone to open the door for us, and the only way was to fake a death. Of course,” he forced a laugh. “You need a little more than air and a convincing argument, so, Illya suggested I actually stab him somewhere not immediately life-threatening. We turned so they could only see his back, I stabbed him, they came in to gloat about human nature, I killed them, and you arrived.”

“They didn’t think to bring their guns in with them?”

“I made a pretty convincing show about being broken up about stabbing my partner. They didn’t notice I still had the knife.”

Illya would probably have made some snarky comment about them not seeing Napoleon as a threat, allowing Napoleon to brush off the revealing truth of the statement. Gaby would never allow him such a blatant retreat.

“I imagine it was quite convincing,” she said carefully.

Napoleon spared a moment to wonder how deep he should dig the pit that she would inevitably shove him into.

“I gave it my all,” he said nonchalantly. “There were tears.”

“I’m sure.” Gaby shook her head fondly.

There was silence for a moment and then Gaby cocked her head and looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to answer the original question.

“That mission was when I realized that Illya was prepared to choose U.N.C.L.E over the KGB, over Russia, over everything.” Napoleon eyed Gaby cautiously, wondering what she would make of the information, and certain he wouldn’t like it.

True to form, she didn’t disappoint.

“U.N.C.L.E?” Gaby queried with an elegant lift of her brow, “or _you_?”

 

_Vienna, 1969_

_It was autumn in Vienna. The trees were gilded with rich reds and vibrant yellows and oranges that diffracted the sunlight with an indolent, ethereal, glow. It was beautiful, like something from another world – an untouched utopia of sprawling fields and thriving forests. Which was probably why Napoleon hadn’t seen his partner for over eight hours. Illya had taken off early in the morning, long before the sunrise, to ‘explore’ the countryside surrounding the safe house and had yet to return._

_Napoleon might have worried, but he was fairly assured of their safety, and Illya was prone to bouts of withdrawal and solitude following some missions._

_The sun was beginning its descent, the deep blue of the sky fading into dusk, and Napoleon looked out the window and spotted Illya strolling down the path to the cottage. The Russian was in no hurry, his long stride measured and even and his arms swinging loosely by his sides. Napoleon watched as he paused by the white wooden gate and rested his hands on it, then closed his eyes and breathed deeply. There was such peace in the angles of his face, in the soft lines at the corners of his mouth and the dark sweep of eyelashes against his skin._

_It felt like a stolen moment, to Napoleon. As if he had witnessed something he had never been meant to see, had taken something that could never be returned._

_Illya’s eyes opened and his gaze shifted to the window and met Napoleon’s squarely. Tension wove itself into his features and deepened the lines on his brow._

_Napoleon stared back, his pulse racing, and felt like he had been caught in the midst of a theft. He wanted to look away, to brush the moment aside, but Illya’s gaze was magnetic. Napoleon imagined he could see his own desires reflected in deep blue irises and heat rose within him, a flash of lust that burnt the remnants of his crumbling restraint._

_To hell with self-control, to hell with playing it safe- he had to know._

_Napoleon broke away from the window, left the kitchen, and walked through the door. He strode up the winding pebbled path and stopped at the gate, a mere foot away from Illya._

_Illya frowned at him in confusion. “Cowboy, what is wrong?”_

_“Don’t shoot me.” Napoleon closed the distance between them – insofar as the gate allowed – clasped his hand around the back of Illya’s neck, and pulled the Russian down so he could press their lips together. Illya, though taken off-guard, didn’t resist the movement. He allowed Napoleon to ravish his mouth, to dig fingers into the soft skin at the back of his neck, to take what he wanted, without protest._

_When Napoleon drew back he noticed that Illya’s hands were gripping the gate tightly, his fingers only a shade darker than the white paint. The expression on his face was bewilderment, his eyes creased and his now reddened lips downturned._

_“What was that?” Illya asked quietly. The gate shook along with the Russian’s hands and it occurred to Napoleon that he was angry._

_It seemed his fears about ruining their partnership had not been unfounded after all._

_“It was nothing, Peril.” Napoleon brushed it off, wondering if they could simply pretend as if he had never made such a monumental mistake._

_Illya ripped the gate from its hinges in one swift, brutally violent, action, snapped it, and tossed it aside._

_“Do not make fun of me,” he hissed. His eyes were wild and he was bleeding from deep gouges in his hands caused by tearing the gate to pieces._

_Napoleon took an involuntary step back and raised his own hands in a placating gesture._

_“I’m not,” he said honestly. He dropped all pretenses, characters, and masks and let sincerity bleed into his words and his expression. “I wanted to kiss you, Illya. I’ve wanted to kiss you since, God, I don’t know how long.”_

_Illya was still shaking with the sheer force of his anger but he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, his hands clenching into fists that only drove the splinters gouged in his palms deeper._

_Napoleon didn’t know if it was the words, or the use of his given name that was getting through to the Russian, so he kept both up, careful to keep his tone genuine._

_“Illya, I respect you far too much to make fun of you that way.”_

_“You say this.” Illya’s accent had thickened in his anger, his words blunt and accusatory, “and yet you kiss me. Why?”_

_“Because I wanted to.” Napoleon repeated. “I wanted to kiss you. I still want to, though at this stage I would probably lose my face.”_

_“Is there not enough willing strangers in this country?” Illya demanded, “that you now turn to me, as last resort?”_

_“I'm - what?” Napoleon couldn’t remember a time he had been as confused as he was in that moment. “A last resort?”_

_“I am not interested in meaningless sex with you.” Illya said flatly, his blue eyes glacial._

_“Well that settles it, then.” Napoleon said cheerily, though he felt – shockingly – as if Illya had reached into his chest, drawn out his pathetic mewling heart and crushed it underfoot. “You aren’t interested. I respect that. Nothing more to be discussed.”_

_Napoleon brushed the hurt aside; it was nothing short of ridiculous. So Illya didn’t want anything more from him; there would be others. It was probably best not to mix business with pleasure, in their line of work, in any case._

_"You should clean those scratches." Napoleon remarked as he turned away and left Illya seething by the gate._

 


	4. Chapter 4

New York, 1971

“Me?” The word fell from his lips, unbidden, at the sheer absurdity of the statement. Gaby was barking mad. Of that, Napoleon was now convinced. How could anyone begin to believe such a thing without bending the very fabric of reality?

“Boys.” Gaby shook her head in exasperation, loose brown hair fluttering with the movement. “You are all hopelessly pathetic.”

“I am offended on behalf of my gender.” Napoleon quieted the unease tugging at his gut and smiled at her in a farce of congeniality.

Gaby smiled back at him, all polite innocence, and then tore him to shreds the way that only she could.

“Illya was in love with you, you moron.”

Napoleon stared at her, mute, as the words ricocheted violently through his entire being. She was wrong, she was lying, and there was no truth to the words. His hands were trembling so he pressed them against his thighs and pretended to smooth out the fabric of his pants.

_Had I but world enough, and time._

“He doesn’t – didn’t – he didn’t. You’re wrong.” It was a frayed and stumbling sentence with none of his characteristic charm or composure. His heart was fluttering in his chest, blood pounding relentlessly at his temple, and a helpless anger worming its way into his bones.

“My God, you’re joking.” Gaby breathed, brown eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re not joking? For God’s sake Napoleon, you utter nincompoop. What did you expect the man to do? Paint a sign on his forehead saying ‘I love Napoleon Solo’?” She reached out and gripped his arm, hard. “If you ask me it’s practically been that damn obvious since 1965.”  

Napoleon shook her off and rose from the couch, though his legs felt liable to give way at any moment. He clenched his fists the way he had seen Illya do countless times, dug his fingernails sharply into his palms, and breathed deeply through his nose until he felt able to speak without the words bleeding into an inconsonant howl.

“The one time we spoke about it,” he said haltingly. “Illya said he wasn’t interested.” Even as he spoke he remembered another time, a night where Illya’s actions had belied his words.

“I don’t believe that.” Gaby said flatly. “What were his words exactly?”

“He said ‘I am not interested in meaningless sex with you’.” Napoleon recalled the words with perfect, bitter, clarity. He felt as if every character, every mask, in his possession had been stripped from him and he was left with only himself. A poor substitute for a human being; a fragile glass house filled with decades of pointed stones.

“You _idiot_.” Gaby snapped, albeit fondly. “Translation; that was Illya – I’m a repressed Russian - for ‘I don’t want a one-night stand, I want a relationship that spans decades and ends in us retiring in a home together and driving each other mad with our inability to actually communicate like adults about anything important’.”

Napoleon blinked at her, momentarily shocked out of his self-flagellation. “I’m fairly certain that is not something Illya would say, even sub textually.”

“No he wouldn’t.” Gaby agreed. “Because he was probably convinced that all you were looking for was sex.” Her words were blunt and accusatory, laying the blame for perceived failure firmly at his feet.

“That wouldn’t be inaccurate, “ he said stiffly.

Gaby fixed him with a hard look. “Aren’t you tired of pretending?”

Napoleon was quickly losing the battle to contain his emotions. Years of denial and repression had left him with an inability to cope with the overwhelming flood of expression that had been festering in every molecule of his existence.

“What difference does it make, now?” Napoleon only realized that he had screamed the words when he saw the expression on Gaby’s too-open face.

She looked heartbroken.

“Napoleon.”

“No, I don’t want to hear it.” There were tears prickling in his eyes; tears of grief, and of violent fury. He closed them, felt the moisture against his eyelashes.

“Napoleon.” Gaby rose from the couch and moved towards him. She grasped his hands with her small ones and gripped them tight as if she could ground him with her presence.

“No, I can’t. I just, I can’t.” The sound of his voice was foreign to his own ears. Choked, strangled, hoarse with a multitude of conflicting sensations.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t deserve him. I never did.” In the consuming silence he could hear his own heartbeat as it drummed relentlessly, “and now I never will.” 

 

_New York, 1970_

_Napoleon was trawling through U.N.C.L.E’s not-so-secret paper files when he heard it. An offhand comment filled with vicious humour and vindictive glee. Words that made his blood run cold with fear and urgency. He dropped the files in his hands, abandoned his careful attempts at secrecy, and sprinted from the restricted room without concern for the consequences of being seen doing so._

_When he reached Waverly’s office he slowed down enough to compose himself and then opened the door with a characteristic flourish._

_“Ah Mr. Solo.” Waverly greeted without looking up from his desk. “I was wondering how long it would take you to find out.”_

_Napoleon wasn’t interested in playing games, but he knew he had to play the situation carefully._

_“What is this I hear about my partner being sent on a suicide mission to the Caribbean?” He kept his tone casual, and tucked his hands into his pockets as he strolled over to the window._

_Waverly, of course, saw right through him without apparent effort._

_“Solo, Kuryakin knew the risks when he accepted the mission. In addition, he stated, in particular, that you were not to be informed.” He raised a silvery-gray eyebrow, “so how is it that you are, in fact, informed?”_

_“I overheard.” Napoleon said shortly._

_“Overheard whilst eavesdropping, I don’t doubt.” Waverly remarked wryly._

_The slow pace grated against Napoleon’s nerves and he was painfully aware of every second that ticked by without forward momentum._

_“Are you that damn keen to lose the only Soviet operative we have?” He demanded._

_“Solo,” Waverly stalled. “The mission parameters required-“_

_The casual indifference was enough to rouse the coiled anger that permeated his core, yet seldom found expression in his words or actions. Heat was building in his chest, but he smoothed it down with ease born from relentless practice._

_“You are going to let me go after him, Waverly.” Napoleon turned from studying the window, voice quiet and words unequivocal. “Or I’m going to go anyway, and then I’m not going to come back.” He placed his palms flat on Waverly’s desk and fixed his superior with a cold stare. “My CIA contract is up – well past up, as you well know – and the only reason I am still here is that you spun me some bullcrap about the good of mankind. Well, let me be_ perfectly _clear about one thing. The ‘good of mankind’ does not require my partner to be sent_ alone _to his funeral in some godforsaken island in the Caribbean.” He paused as a thought struck him with chilling clarity. “Unless…that is what you’re doing, isn’t it? You’re not just sending him to his funeral; you’re orchestrating it. Why else would you have an agent infiltrate an island you intended to bomb?”_

 _“Kuryakin is a Soviet spy, as you so astutely pointed out.” Waverly said without emotion, without inflection, without guilt. “One that I do believe has been reporting back to his Soviet handlers about our operations. He received communication from them earlier this week, do you know? Communication he refused to share with us.” Waverly stood then, rising to his feet with the unhurried grace of a man with decades of healed injuries. “Given the delicate nature of our operations, we decided that we could no longer afford to keep him around. Beyond that, Mr. Solo, it is none of your business.” There was a tense pause, and then he added, “and may I caution_ _you_ _that any further insubordination will not be tolerated.”_

_“I don’t believe he would betray U.N.C.L.E.” Napoleon said quietly, “but if that’s true then he deserves an inquiry like any other agent.”_

_Waverly studied him for a moment and then sighed effusively and waved his hand towards the door._

_“Very well, Solo. Collect him. But lose some of the optimism, this won’t end well.”_

_At his words Napoleon headed straight for the door without further fuss, eager to be on his way before any more time was wasted._

_As the door slammed shut behind him, he heard Waverly mutter disparagingly. “Alexander Waverly: sentimental grandmother of the year.” **[i]** _

_…_

_Ten hours later_

_A quite rap against the door woke Napoleon from a light, uneasy, sleep. Limbs strewn across the bed, sheets rucked down at his feet, and bare-chested due to the summer heat, it took him a minute to comprehend the cause of his awakening. Yawning languidly, he rolled off of the bed and padded quietly out of his bedroom and over to the front door._

_The quiet rap sounded again and Napoleon opened the door to reveal his partner standing there with an armful of books and a half-finished bottle of vodka. Illya was dressed in the same clothes he'd been wearing six hours earlier when Napoleon had fished him out of the Atlantic Ocean; half-drowned and miraculously alive, though the entire island had been engulfed in a chaotic storm of smoke and fire. The black turtleneck was ripped in several places and the entire left side was faintly singed._

_“Don’t you own anything else, Peril?” Napoleon asked incredulously, “and are you aware that it’s two in the morning?”_

_“Yes.” Illya said simply and then pushed past him and walked straight into the apartment without further comment._

_“By all means.” Napoleon muttered, though he was more curious than irritated. He closed the door and turned around to watch as Illya placed the books gently on his coffee table and then lifted the bottle of vodka to his lips and drank liberally from it._

_“What’s going on?” Napoleon observed the other man’s flushed cheeks, slightly dilated pupils, and red-rimmed eyes with concern. He had never witnessed Illya drink that much, that quickly, that undiluted._

_“I am drinking.”_

_“I see that.” Napoleon moved towards him. “My question is why, and why_ here _?”_

_Illya looked down at the bottle in his hands and traced his fingers across the label. “Because I do not wish to be alone,” he said honestly. The Russian’s expression was uncharacteristically open, emotion written clear in the nuances of his face, and yet still Napoleon couldn’t fathom his thoughts._

_He must have been silent for too long because Illya shifted uncomfortably, the skin around his eyes tightening. “I will leave.”_

_Napoleon stopped him with a hand to his chest and felt the muscles tense beneath his palm._

_“No,” he said quietly. “Stay.”_

_Illya’s gaze traced along the line of his arm to his shoulder, and across his bare chest, and then up to his lips and, finally, met his eyes. As they looked at each other, Napoleon absorbed the flickering emotions trapped in the other man’s unwavering stare. It was a cacophony of unvoiced sentiment and buried need; a fire burning wild yet contained with rigid control._

_Though it seemed that, in that moment, Illya’s control was slipping and Napoleon’s had never been all that resilient. Still, he was determined not to make the first move. Illya was attracted to him. Napoleon could admit that without making mountains out of molehills. He was intimately acquainted with lust in all its forms and physical expressions._

_But he was keenly aware that some people needed more than lust, and Illya had made it perfectly clear he wanted nothing to do with Napoleon in that regard._

_Illya broke the stare suddenly and Napoleon swallowed his disappointment as the Russian moved away to sit down on the couch._

_“I did not need rescuing.” Illya stated morosely and drank some more of the vodka. It was a complete non sequitur, given the direction Napoleon had hoped they might be heading in, but admittedly not an unexpected one._

_Illya hadn’t spoken a single word to him, before arriving at his door, after he had fished the man out of the Atlantic Ocean and forced him to expel the gallons of seawater he had inhaled. He had sulked at the back of the small plane, refusing to meet Napoleon’s eyes and answering questions with a sharp nod or shake of his head.  Coupled with Waverly’s comments about the communication he had received from Russia and refused to share with U.N.C.L.E, it had been more than obvious that something was wrong._

_Napoleon thought he knew exactly what had been in Illya’s orders from Russia, and it was a thought that sat like a pointed stone in his gut. Every way it rolled, it hurt._

_“I have to disagree with you there, Peril.” Napoleon sat down next to him on the couch. He calculated the distance perfectly - near enough to facilitate conversation, but not close enough to be predatory. “I don’t know where you learnt English, but my definition of ‘in need of rescuing’ includes drowning.”_

_“I did not drown.” Illya’s lip curled and his grip tightened around the neck of the bottle._

_“Because I rescued you.” Napoleon pointed out. “You had enough water in your lungs that if I hadn’t, you would be dead.” He kept his tone gentle and un-accusatory, as he didn’t want to poke the Russian’s potent temper. Not yet, anyway._

_“I do not fear death.” Illya retorted, effortlessly missing the point of Napoleon’s words._

_Napoleon sighed and leaned back against the couch, dropping his head over the top of it to stare at the ceiling. “I’m not saying that you should.” He weighed his words, considering, and then decided that he didn’t much care what reaction they would draw from the Russian. “I’m just asking you not to greet it quite so warmly.”_

_He felt the heat of Illya’s gaze as it settled on him, a stifling, tangible, presence._

_“Why Cowboy, is almost as if you care.”_

_The words were quiet and perhaps meant to be humorous, but to Napoleon they felt like an undeserved slap to the face; a recrimination for having the audacity to feel something more for his partner than collegial loyalty and comradeship._

_He wanted to say ‘I care so much it makes me want to gouge out my eyeballs to relieve the pressure’ but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Rejection at that level of vulnerability would shatter him like the reflective surface that he was._

_“Why did you ask Waverly not to tell me?” As the words left his lips, he knew he had failed to keep them neutral. Hurt lingered in every vowel, accusation in every consonant._

_Illya was silent for a long time. So silent, that Napoleon thought he could have just left the room entirely. He lifted his head to check and saw that Illya was still there, staring bleakly at the bottle of vodka. There was a translucent silvery trace of moisture on his cheek and Napoleon felt as if an unseen blade had cut the line of the anchor tethering them both to the plane of reality._

_“I did not want you to come after me.” Illya said finally, the texture of his tone speaking volumes._

_“You knew I would?” Napoleon asked, surprised and warmed by the unvoiced admission._

_“I hoped.” Illya frowned and then looked up, his eyes meeting Napoleon’s. “I had no right to.”_

_“You weren’t wrong.” Napoleon pointed out in lieu of a more serious, vulnerable, response. Quieter, and despite the uncertainty he felt, he added. “It didn’t even occur to me to do anything else.”_

_“I do not know why, after…all that has occurred.” Illya’s brow furrowed as his gaze pierced Napoleon, searching for something in his expression. “You are good man, Solo. Better than I give you credit for.”_

_“You’ve never been less than honest with me.” Napoleon felt like an ant trapped under a magnifying glass, Illya’s stare was scorching in its intensity. “I appreciate that. I might spin lies, but I’ve never much liked hearing them.” The joke fell flat, unable to rise through the stifling heat._

_“I have not been honest with you.” Illya looked away, finally, and Napoleon felt as if he could breathe again._

_“About what?”_

_Illya remained silent, staring into the distance, his jaw tense and his expression pensive. Then he lifted the vodka to his lips and drank._

_When it was pretty clear that he wasn’t going to speak again, Napoleon reached out and took the bottle from him. Illya let him, fingers sliding from the glass without protest._

_Napoleon drank a generous amount and then placed the bottle on the coffee table. He glanced at Illya, who had crossed his arms and was digging his fingers tightly into his deltoid muscles._

_Something was clearly bothering the Russian, and it didn’t take a genius to figure it out. He wanted badly to ask Illya, but he knew the verbalization of his fears would give them a certainty he couldn’t yet accept._

_Instead he turned his attention to the books on his coffee table and made as if to pick one up off of the pile. Illya’s hand intercepted him, fingers curling around his wrist and holding it in place._

_“Leave them.” The Russian ordered without even glancing in his direction._

_Napoleon froze mid-motion, leaning partway off of the couch, and looked down at the large hand enclosing his wrist. Illya’s grip was solid and warm, the calloused pads of his fingers rough, and the touch sent a shiver of anticipation rippling down Napoleon’s spine. He waited on tenterhooks for the Russian to release him, but the movement never came._

_Illya seemed frozen himself; a portrait of solemn uncertainty. Slowly he turned his head and met Napoleon’s stare. A spark quivered between them; the churning friction of a pivotal moment._

_Illya leaned in towards him, as if drawn by the magnetic pulse, and the tinder caught alight. Napoleon saw the moment Illya’s self-control faltered, bore witness as the guardedness of his eyes slipped and melted into hunger._

_There was no way of knowing who moved first. They met in a clash of desire and a loss of restraint, of searching mouths and trembling hands. Napoleon felt Illya’s lips solid and unyielding against his own and groaned as he allowed the Russian to push him back against the couch. Illya moved with a strength and sureness that seemed born of instinct rather than rehearsal, which was thrilling in its novelty. Napoleon knew all the steps but he was content to let his partner lead, reveling in his own surrender of control._

_“This is bad idea.” Illya remarked huskily, his words rumbling through the sliver of space that separated their lips._

_Napoleon curled his hand around the nape of the Russian’s neck and dug his fingers into the taut muscles._

_“Why?”_

_Illya made a low sound as Napoleon bit his bottom lip sharply, and then drew it between his own. His hands slid down to Napoleon’s hips and settled there, his grip surprisingly light. Then he drew back, his lip slipping from between Napoleon’s teeth, and looked down at him with an unreadable expression._

_Illya’s blue eyes were bright and dilated, his cheeks flushed and his mouth reddened and downturned._

_Napoleon waited for the elaboration, for the inevitable knell of reality, sharp and clear and devastating in its vibrations._

_The silence was agonizing. With every second it swelled, a crescendo in music building torturously to a preordained climax. Under Illya’s silent stare, Napoleon felt like a raw nerve exposed through skin flayed and peeled back to display him as he was, as he could only ever truly be._

_He could wear as many masks as he pleased, don as many characters as he saw fit to perpetuate his farce, but there was only one that ran like ink through his veins, the story of his life written in his blood and threaded through the strands of his DNA._

_Illya’s gaze was a razor-sharp scalpel, paring away the lies and the affectations, exposing the parts of him that cowered in the compartments of his mind._

_Napoleon could hear nothing bar the thrum of his heart as it fluttered wildly in stark contrast to the ringing stillness that engulfed him._

_If Illya didn’t speak, or move, to relieve his agony, Napoleon felt liable to combust spontaneously from the nervous energy trembling within his limbs. But despite being pent up, strung out, and tethered to the moment and its ramifications, all he could do was wait._

_After an age, Illya’s gaze dropped and he shook his head slowly as his hands slipped from Napoleon’s hips. Then he looked up and, though the hint of a smile caressed his lips, his eyes were haunted._

_“It_ would _be you, Cowboy.” He said quietly, tone colored with helpless wonder._

_Napoleon didn’t understand the words but suspected he wasn’t meant to – Illya looked like a man on the edge of a precipice, murmuring, to himself, words of courage or words of exculpation._

_Illya would fall one way, or the other, and Napoleon would have to accept his choice for what it was._

_His breath caught – embarrassingly, for a man of his experience – in his throat as Illya raised a hand to touch his cheek. The pad of his thumb brushed along the swell of Napoleon’s lip, blue eyes tracking the movement with piercing focus._

_Then Illya leaned in and kissed him hungrily, fervently, and Napoleon, though swept away in the tide of sensation, couldn’t help but taste finality on his tongue._

_…_

_Four hours later_

_When Napoleon woke, sprawled along the length of the couch, it was to a painful crick in his neck and a distinct lack of company. It didn’t take him long to ascertain that Illya was gone. Panic lurked on the cusp of his consciousness, held firmly in check with unwavering practicality and self-delusion._

_Illya had merely gone back to his own room. That was all there was to it and, though it left Napoleon feeling a little like a cheap lay, it was nothing worth spooking over._

_Rolling off of the couch in quick, economic, movements he strode over to the door and opened it with steady hands. Illya’s room was mere feet from his own and he was across the hallway in two steps._

_The door was unlocked._

_Any part of him that had remained foolishly optimistic sputtered and died in that moment._

_There was only one reason a man like Illya would leave his door unlocked – he wasn’t coming back._

_Napoleon turned the knob and let the door swing open to reveal a graveyard of furnishings. Not a fixture was unbroken in the devastation laid bare before his eyes._

_It was a perfect corporeal expression of his internal state._

_He mercilessly quashed and repressed the emotions he could feel bubbling to the surface, siphoning the steam for more practical purposes. As he closed the door quietly it occurred to him, with no small measure of self-deprecation that he hadn’t really considered the outcome that was now reality. It had been more than obvious that Illya had been ordered to return to Russia – painfully transparent, in fact – it was just that, given all that had transpired between them, Napoleon hadn’t truly expected him to go._

_But what had he expected? That Illya would betray his country; ignore his orders and defect? The thought was little more than the baseless fantasy of an enamored, naïve fool._

_He had been pining fruitlessly after the Russian for years, but had Napoleon known, as Illya had, the precise nature of their end, he might have simply turned tail and fled the lick of the flames. Better to have never known what he might have lost, if all he could do was lose it._ _But he hadn’t known. Like a complete idiot he had allowed his indefatigable optimism to blind him to the reality of the world Illya had always belonged to. A world he had stupidly thought left behind in the Russian’s wake, not one whose roots permeated every part of his core. Illya was no freer from the Soviets than a hand could be free of the wrist. Moving with apparent autonomy, yet chained with tendons and ligaments that rippled with every action._

_Defection, for a man who valued loyalty above his own life, was an inconceivable notion. It was anathema to his very nature, a betrayal of all that he was, of all that he held dear. That Napoleon had allowed himself to think it possible was testament to how far he had strayed into his delusion._

_He knew he could never be worth that kind of sacrifice, and it was well past time he stopped pretending otherwise._

_Napoleon walked back into his room and slumped heavily onto the couch. He dropped his head into his hands, running his fingers through his messy hair, digging his nails into his scalp.  His gaze alighted on the stack of poetry books Illya had left, for no apparent reason, on his coffee table. Their very existence mocked him and he had the sudden, inescapable, urge to pitch them out the window of his apartment. Reaching over he plucked the first one off of the stack. It was an anthology of early to mid 17 th century poems; a beautiful leather-bound edition. Against his better judgment, Napoleon opened the book. Illya’s name was printed neatly in the top left corner of the back of the cover, handwriting an inked caricature of his nature. Nothing about Illya was neat, not truly. _

_Flicking idly through the pages, Napoleon came across a poem bookmarked with a piece of folded paper. The poem, by Andrew Marvell, was entitled ‘To His Coy Mistress’ and was one that Napoleon had read himself a few years after it had been published in the early 1960’s. It was a curious poem for Illya to have bookmarked, and one more layer of mystery that Napoleon would never unravel._

_He set the book aside and turned his attention to the piece of paper, unfolding it with unabashed curiosity. The contents were written in Russian, but he had enough understanding of the written language to translate without trouble._

_It was exactly what he had feared, and more. The letter contained a grim pronouncement that Illya’s mother had died a month prior, and unequivocal orders to abandon U.N.C.L.E and return to Russia forthwith._

_At the bottom, in Illya’s precise hand, were the words ‘needs must, Cowboy’._

_And then it truly hit him; a direct blow to the sternum that quickened his breathing and shredded the last remaining fragments of his self-deception._

_Illya had left him, and he wasn’t coming back._

 

[i] Quote from “The Concrete Overcoat Affair”.


	5. Chapter 5

New York 1971

There was silence in the wake of his pronouncement and then Gaby squeezed his hands, her expression pained.

“It’s not about what you deserve.” She said quietly. Then she hesitated and continued carefully, “but you are one of the most deserving people I know.”

“You don’t have to butter me up, Gaby.” Napoleon said bitterly. “I know exactly what I am. Shallow, vain, selfish, insincere.”

“You can be.” She agreed in her typical direct manner, “but anyone who thinks that’s all there is to you hasn’t looked deeply enough.”

Napoleon snorted, disbelieving, and turned away from the undeserved warmth of her gaze.

“Illya looked at you and he saw a man worth defying orders for.” Gaby continued. “He saw a man worth dying for.”

Napoleon jerked his hands away from hers, ignoring the hurt expression on her face, and took a step back.

“If you look hard enough at anything you’ll see what you want to see,” he remarked quietly. “That doesn’t mean that it’s there.”

 

_New York, 1970_

_Napoleon was summoned to Waverly’s office a fortnight after Illya’s abrupt departure. Frankly, he had expected to be grilled about it far sooner, maybe even suspended – he had been the one to advocate for Illya’s innocence, after all._

_It was early enough in the morning that the headquarters was all but deserted. A skeleton crew were manning the desks; a few desk agents and analysts keeping eyes on world events, and ears out for complications in existing missions. Gaby was on one such mission, in Romania, and had been for months. It was a long one – intelligence gathering and ingratiation into a previously unknown terrorist organization poised to join T.H.R.U.S.H in their categorization as a world threat._

_Napoleon missed her fiercely – particularly in light of Illya’s departure. Gaby would have known what to do; she would have known what to say to make him stay. The Russian always listened to Gaby in a way that he never extended to Napoleon. The two weren’t romantically involved – and never really had been despite fumbling through a mutual attraction in Italy and Istanbul – but Illya loved Gaby in his quiet, protective way. It was more than obvious in the way he would verbally, and quite often literally; eviscerate anyone foolish enough to cross her in his presence. No one at U.N.C.L.E would risk saying a bad word against her for fear of his retribution, and a few of the younger agents would run swiftly in the opposite direction if she approached them._

_Napoleon reached Waverly’s office and knocked politely on the door – he wasn’t about to make his situation any worse by barging in as per his usual fashion. He heard the quiet strains of conversation screech to a halt as the knock sounded, and there was a brief moment of silence._

_“Mr Solo?” Waverly inquired._

_Napoleon stared at the patterned grain of the wooden door. “May I come in?” He hazarded._

_Immediately following his words, there was a sharp query in Russian that set Napoleon on edge, his hackles rising._

_“Yes, do come in.” Waverly said genially._

_Napoleon opened the door with as much calm as he could muster, stepped inside, and closed it slowly behind him. When he looked over at the desk he saw Waverly sitting across from Oleg – Illya’s KBG handler. Both men appeared to be tense; whatever the topic of conversation, neither was particularly pleased._

_“Mr Solo-“ Waverly began only to be interrupted by a sharp bark from Oleg._

_“Where is Illya Kuryakin?” The Old Russian demanded in heavily accented English, his brow creased. He sat rigid and straight-backed in his chair; the cold impassiveness of his gaze at odds with the heat in his words, and the coiled tension in his posture._

_It took everything Napoleon had to hide his instinctive reaction to the question. The idea that Illya had not returned to Russia, after all, was maddening and terrifying, and it wasn’t something he could entertain with Oleg’s glacial gaze fixed upon him._

_“We sent him back.” Napoleon commented airily, his mask firmly in place, and gave no indication of how much the words cost him to utter. “Why, is something the matter? Didn’t he arrive?”_

_Oleg’s eyes narrowed further as he rose stiffly from his chair and stepped towards Napoleon to encroach menacingly on his personal space. It wasn’t anything like being physically intimidated by Illya, but there was something dark lurking in the older Russian’s gaze that alerted Napoleon to how dangerous he was. It would be a monumental, perhaps fatal, mistake to underestimate him. Oleg was a man who got his way, a man who made things happen whatever the cost, whatever the consequences. He was a man accustomed to power, obviously comfortable with it and brutally aware of how effectively it could be wielded._

_“Your handler tells me that you do not know.” Oleg said coldly, a hard edge to his tone, “but I think that you must know. You are his partner.”_

_“Peril was never much in the habit of sharing his plans.” Napoleon remarked, and he didn’t have to reach far down to find the hurt to fuel the statement – it was entirely accurate. “Least of all with me.”_

_Oleg stared him down, pale eyes flat yet quietly threatening. “We will find him,” he said slowly. “You cannot hide him forever, and there will come a day when your vigilance fails. I am a patient man.” The corners of his lips quirked in a brief, predatory smile. “I can wait.”_

_“I think you’ll find that an exercise in futility.” Napoleon said tightly, flashing his own, insincere, smile. “We’re not hiding him, but I imagine the defection of your top agent would be quite a blight on your reputation.” He refused to allow Oleg to intimidate him, though the Russian was standing far closer than he was comfortable with._

_“There is no such thing as defection from KGB.” Oleg replied stonily. “Only death releases from service.”_

_“Well.” Napoleon said cheerily, careful to keep his tone light. “I’ll be sure to pass that on to Peril, if I do happen to see him.”_

_“Perhaps you will join him.” Oleg threatened calmly, though the tiniest flicker of anger stirred in his eyes. “It is so not much trouble to kill an American, and immensely satisfying.”_

_“Best of luck.” Napoleon told him, inclining his head and refusing to rise to the bait._

_Oleg glowered at him a moment longer and then turned dismissively towards Waverly who rose from his chair as if in need of the extra height to control the conversation._

_“I hope you realize what you are doing with this pointless defiance.” The Russian remarked, disgust wrapping tight around his words. “This will not be forgotten.”_

_“Just one more tally on an infinite score.” Waverly observed with a manner of flippancy, though his eyes were grave._

_“What is he to you?” Oleg questioned, his tone bordering on outright curiosity. “The life of a KGB agent, however skilled, is not worth jeopardizing an alliance.”_

_“I’m afraid we’ll have to disagree on that, old bean.” Waverly said apologetically. “Though I could, in fact, say the same to you.”_

_Oleg shook his head and, for a moment, Napoleon could see the weariness that deepened the lines in his face. “It is out of my hands.” Then he strode to the door, opened it, and left._

_As the door shut behind him, Waverly sighed effusively and dropped back down in his chair heavily._

_“Well this is quite the pickle.”_

_Napoleon watched him for a moment and then decided that if he was going to have that conversation, he might as well make himself confortable. He took the chair Oleg had been seated on, settling into it lightly and rested his elbows on his knees._

_Waverly raised an eyebrow at him, but didn’t comment on the assumed liberty._

_Napoleon waited for Waverly to begin, to raise whatever point for which he had been summoned, but didn’t imagine that he could wait long – his heart had been thrumming insistently ever since the possibility of Illya’s defection had been raised._

_“Do you think he got lost?” Napoleon said finally, his patience worn thin._

_Waverly looked up from examining his desk and blinked, confusion evident on his features._

_“Who? Oleg?”_

_“Peril.” Napoleon clarified. “Do you think he got lost on his way back to Russia?”_

_It was entirely possible that U.N.C.L.E had nothing to do with Illya’s apparent defection. Certainly if the organization had been, then Napoleon would have expected to have been informed at the very least, if not actively involved. Then again, Illya probably wouldn’t even have told him his favorite meal if Napoleon hadn’t pried it out of him with the verbal equivalent of a crowbar. A failure to volunteer information was hardly surprising, and Napoleon had actively decided not to ask about the communication from Russia the last night he had seen him. Maybe if he had Illya might have told him his plans. Maybe if he had, Illya might have given him the chance to ask him to stay._

_“You don’t know, do you?” Waverly’s words suggested surprise, but his tone was equal parts exasperation and wearied expectance._

_“Know what?” Two simple words had never seemed endowed with more importance._

_“Kuryakin never intended to return to Russia.” Waverly told him matter-of-factly. “He’s here – in a safe house.”_

_Napoleon resisted the urge to gape, and instead dug his fingers into the arms of the chair to control his reaction. “When last we spoke you were convinced he had betrayed U.N.C.L.E. You sent him to the Caribbean to get blown up.”_

_“Kuryakin came to me after you brought him back.” Waverly said steadily, unmoved. “He told me he was being recalled to Russia and he asked if he could stay.” He shrugged, “he was supposed to tell you before he left. I assumed that he had.”_

_“Well he didn’t.” Napoleon said pointedly, alarmed to realize how angry the news had made him. He kept his emotion in check and his expression carefully blank, but he could feel his muscles tensing under the surface of his skin._

_“Yes, that has become rather obvious.” Waverly remarked._

_“Where is he?”_

_Waverly shook his head. “No, Mr. Solo. If you storm off now you’ll lead the Russians right to him.”_

_“Give me some credit, please.” Napoleon scoffed._

_“You’re angry.” Waverly observed in his calm, unaffected manner._

_“You’re damn right I’m angry.” Napoleon kept his voice low, “but I’m not stupid.”_

_“I certainly hope so.”_

New York, 1971

“That doesn’t mean that it isn’t there.” Gaby countered. She looked like she believed what she was saying, which only meant that Napoleon had played his part well enough to fool her. He couldn’t blame her - sometimes he could almost fool himself, but he was never quite able to forget what lay underneath.

Napoleon stepped away from her, his jaw tight and his expression blank. It was time he reminded her what she was dealing with.

“Don’t you blame me?” He asked quietly. “I do. It’s my fault.” He didn’t turn around to see her expression; he didn’t have to, he could picture it perfectly. She would be exasperated, sympathetic, and perhaps even angry.

“What was your fault?” Gaby’s tone was pointed, accusatory, as if daring him to take blame for the whole mess.

Well, he would hate to disappoint.

“Everything.”

Gaby snorted disbelievingly. “Well you never did give him enough credit. Even now you think you can take away his freedom to make his own choices.” She moved closer and edged into his line of sight. “Napoleon, to take responsibility for Illya’s death – _his_ choice – is nothing less than an insult to his memory.”

“It was the wrong choice.” Napoleon snapped, his tone cold.

“That isn’t for you to decide.” Gaby frowned, her lips pursing. “It was Illya’s decision-“

“Which he had to make _because of me_.” Napoleon growled and then turned on his heel and paced away from her. He was just barely keeping it together; just barely keeping the anger that laced the marrow of his bones in check.

“You didn’t kill him.” Gaby threw the words like well-aimed knives at a target, but she didn’t know the point was to miss.

“I as good as held the gun to his head.”

“No.” She said forcefully. “You _were_ the gun, but you did _not_ pull the trigger. The KGB – his own people – did that.”

“They would never have had it in the first place, if it wasn’t for me.”

“Napoleon-“

“He warned me.” Napoleon told her. “He told me they’d be after me, he told me to watch my back. I didn’t, and now he’s dead.”

“You can’t-“

“I was, it was – Gaby, don’t you get it? I all but handed myself to the Russians on a goddamn silver platter. I may as well have put up a sign saying ‘Illya’s weakness over here, come and get me’.”

Gaby slapped him, hard, in the face and stared him down despite her small stature. “Illya loved you.” She snapped, her voice harsh and her breathing uneven. “That might make you a liability, but it doesn’t make it your fault.”

Napoleon traced the sting of the slap with his fingers. “That makes it worse,” he said quietly. “Because I never should have gone back there, but I did and I betrayed him Gaby. I betrayed the man who…the man I…there’s no way out of this one. No clever trick, no different perception. I betrayed him. I got him killed. It’s my fault.”

“Napoleon, he knew you would find him there, and he knew you would go back.” Gaby argued. “He expected you to – he _wanted_ you to.”

“You’re way off base there.” Napoleon laughed, sounding unhinged even to his own ears. “He never told me he was defecting. He never even told me he had been recalled to Russia.”

“But you knew.”

“I knew the latter.”

“You _idiot_.”

“You said that already.”

“How could you not know? How could you honestly think he would leave?” Gaby’s expression was a painful blend of disbelief and despair.

Napoleon spoke the same words he had used when Illya had asked him the very same question, blue eyes intense and quietly accusatory. “Because there wasn’t any reason for him to stay.”

 

_New York, 1970_

_This time, unlike Istanbul, Illya didn’t even protest the unwanted intrusion. He opened the door swiftly as Napoleon lowered his fist to knock a second time and ushered him inside with a furtive glance and a complete lack of surprise bordering on warm indulgence. Once the door was firmly shut and bolted behind them, the Russian turned to Napoleon and studied him carefully, blue eyes roving over his face and posture before narrowing in disbelief. The warmth in his expression faded as he crossed his arms, and Napoleon was struck by the realization that he had made some kind of major misstep, the cause of which he could not identify. Illya didn’t seem angry – which was his usual reaction to Napoleon’s inability to abide by safe house rules – and his voice was quiet when he finally spoke._

_“So it is true, then.”_

_“What’s true?” Napoleon kept a leash on his anger, though the beast of it was liable to chew through at any moment. He had thought his voice sounded calm and reasonable but it was clear that Illya had picked up on the underlying tension._

_“You thought I returned to Russia. To KGB.” The words were curt, clipped, and as close to hurt as Napoleon had ever heard from Illya. Though, it was entirely possible he was merely projecting his own emotions and ascribing them to the Russian. It wouldn’t be the first time._

_“You didn’t exactly leave me any other kind of impression.” Napoleon pointed out, utterly failing to keep the bitter edge from his tone. It was nothing short of embarrassing. Years of training and natural ability stripped from him with one pointed look from an emotionally distant Russian._

_“I left note.” Illya said simply and his tone was everything that Napoleon’s failed to be. Calm, collected, aloof. It was only his eyes that gave him away; burning, as always, with an intensity that promised to engulf the object of his focus._

_“That could have meant anything!” Napoleon retorted. “You wrote three words at the bottom of your orders to return to Russia – and those words weren’t ‘I’m not going’.”_

_“What did you expect?” Illya asked impassively. “I could not take risk that you were being watched. I had already delayed leaving, my handler was suspicious.”_

_“So you decided an obscure reference to an idiom was the way to go?” Napoleon felt, disturbingly, as if he was having an argument with a brick wall for all the emotion Illya was displaying. The Russian was completely calm, with no sign of his infamous temper, and the contrast between them only served to fuel Napoleon’s anger. “Was fucking your partner just another way to avoid suspicion?” He regretted the words the moment they fell from his lips and cut through the air like missiles, each one hitting the target perfectly as if equipped with a homing device._

_There was no word for the expression on Illya’s face, and Napoleon felt physically ill seeing the way it twisted his lips and shadowed his gaze._

_Illya sucked in a breath and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them his face was once again blank, though his eyes remained expressive. “No,” he said shortly. “That was never my intention. I was…intoxicated.”_

_“Right.” Napoleon said faintly, wondering if it was possible to feel any worse than he did in that moment. Of course Illya had never meant to sleep with him, he just hadn’t been able to stop himself. Alcohol had that effect even on stoic Russians, particularly in the quantities he had imbibed. “So you just came over to leave me a cryptic message about ‘needs must’?”_

_Illya nodded, a tiny hint of relief at the redirection evident in his expression. “You told me that phrase meant that sometimes you have to do things you would not ordinarily do.”_

_Napoleon felt a dawning sense of dread, his stomach churning._

_“What is it that I would not ordinarily do, Napoleon?” Illya continued, and the use of his first name only seemed to drive his point home._

_“Defect.” Napoleon supplied quietly and then looked away. Illya’s impassiveness was somehow worse than all the emotion the Russian could have thrown at him. It spoke of resignation and acceptance, of bitter expectation._

_“Is clear enough to me.” Illya continued, ruthlessly unaware of the turmoil he was causing, or perhaps impervious to it. “Problem is that even after all this time, you do not trust me.” There was a flicker of sadness in the way his gaze swept across Napoleon’s own. “The KGB recalled me to Russia because with the death of my mother, they feared they would not have sufficient control. I expect that from them. I thought differently of you.” The bitter edge to his words was palpable and Napoleon longed to scrape it away, but didn’t know how. For once his skills had deserted him, and at perhaps the most crucial moment._

_“I do trust you.” He said hopelessly, though he knew the words would mean nothing. Illya was a man of action with little patience or regard for Napoleon’s empty platitudes._

_“Then why is first thing you assume that I have returned to Russia?” Illya frowned. “Why is it you think it so likely that I would betray U.N.C.L.E?” He shook his head. “No, you do not trust me. What other reason can there be?” Illya turned away and Napoleon saw him slipping through his fingers like sand to be swept away with the tide, lost amidst the waves and forever out of his reach._

_Napoleon stepped forward, desperate and, for once, without pretense, and grabbed Illya’s wrist to stop him from moving any further._

_“I couldn’t see any reason why you wouldn’t.” He confessed to the length of Illya’s back and the line of his arm, watching the muscles shift beneath the fabric of his shirt._

_He had said the wrong thing, it was obvious in the ensuing silence, but it was the only thing he knew to be truly honest._

_“Is that what you think of me?” Illya didn’t turn his head to look at Napoleon, and his muscles tensed as if he was going to yank his wrist from Napoleon’s grip. “Is good to finally know.” From the side his expression was absolutely inscrutable; his mouth set in a hard line, and his eyes glacial._

_Napoleon took a step forward, still clasping Illya’s wrist as if it were an anchor, and silently begging him to understand what he couldn’t seem to express in words, or actions._

_“I think you’re a loyal man who wouldn’t betray his country, much less his family.”_

_“I have no family left to betray.” Illya reminded him and finally turned his head to meet Napoleon’s gaze with piercing steadiness._

_“And your country?” Napoleon whispered, words barely audible._

_“Is less important to me now.” Illya made no move to reclaim his wrist, his eyes fixed on Napoleon’s and his expression uncharacteristically open._

_“Why?”_

_Illya frowned at him, uncertainty evident in the heat of his gaze. He seemed on the verge of responding, but then he shook his head and backed away, tugging his wrist from Napoleon’s grasp._

_“It is best you do not return here.” Illya said stiffly. “KGB will become suspicious.”_

_“They can’t follow me.” Napoleon said, affronted and aching from the loss of contact._

_“They do not have to.” Illya moved to the door. “If they think you know, and you give them chance, they will get the answers from you. One way or another.”_

_“I would never tell them.” Napoleon argued, but followed him nonetheless._

_“It would not matter.” Illya said quietly, his meaning unclear, “but I believe you, Cowboy.”_

_“Good.” Napoleon opened the door and stepped through it. As he turned to close it behind him, he caught a peculiar expression on Illya’s face. It was a mixture of hope and fear, regret and resignation._

_He knew he couldn't leave it there. He would have to come back, and he would have to get answers._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late, and quite short. I've been bogged down with exams and since it's been so long since my last update I thought a shorter one was due.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, so very sorry for how long this took. All I can say is that I went through a period where I couldn't bear to post anything, it just didn't seem right.  
> We're almost at the end now, only the epilogue left after this.  
> Thank you for reading, especially if you are still reading even after the enormous gap between this chapter and the last.  
> I hope this makes up for it.

**New York, 1971**

Gaby watched him for a moment, her lips downturned. “And what do you believe now?” She asked quietly.

“What do I believe now?” Napoleon parroted absently, his thoughts fixed on Illya’s expression the first time he’d visited the Russian at the safe house. He still couldn’t make sense of it. It felt as if he were missing the extraneous pieces of a puzzle that appeared to make sense, but lacked the critical context. _It would not matter_ , Illya had said. As if there was no other outcome he could foresee but that the KGB find him. Yet if that were true, then why bother hiding? Why leave cryptic clues that only ensured that very outcome? If Gaby was right, and Illya had known Napoleon would return, then why had he allowed himself to be found in the first place? It was illogical. It was an unnecessary risk with only one very specific, but anomalous, benefit.  

“Napoleon?” Gaby touched his shoulder gently, and then elaborated. “Is it still so difficult to believe that Illya might have defected for you?”

She seemed to sense his hesitance, and continued. “Given everything that happened?”

 

**_New York, 1970_ **

_“Are you trying to get me killed, Cowboy?” Illya asked when Napoleon, having easily ditched his Soviet tail, returned to the safe house mere days after his first visit._

_“Easier ways, Peril.” Napoleon clapped him on the shoulder as he waltzed through the door, noting the lack of animosity in the Russian’s tone and the lazy tilt of his eyebrow._

_“I disagree.” Illya refused to move from the doorway. “Arranging for my own people to kill me – is neat. Is the way I would do it. Less paperwork.”_

_“I’ll keep that in mind.” Napoleon turned around. “So we’re doing this here? In the doorway?”_

_“Doing what?” Illya frowned, crossing his arms. “Why are you here?”_

_“You know why.” Napoleon scrutinized the Russian’s face carefully. There was a flicker of something unidentifiable in his gaze and then his expression settled, blank and impassive._

_“You should leave.” Illya’s voice was equally uninformative, his tone even and his words neutral._

_“Not until you tell me why.” Napoleon took a step closer and was surprised to see Illya tense almost imperceptibly. It wasn’t obvious, and his only clue was the deepening of the grooves the Russian’s fingers made in the fabric of his shirt, but it was there. The knowledge emboldened him and he stepped closer again, a part of him relishing the thought of Illya sinking back into the doorframe, no avenue of retreat from his advance, as he moved forward, leaned in._

_Of course, Illya did no such thing._

_The Russian lifted an eyebrow and squared his stance, chin tilting minutely and gaze hardening._

_“No.” He said brusquely, “after.”_

_“After what?” Napoleon challenged._

_“Everything.” Illya said quietly, gaze hooded. “After everything.”_

**New York, 1971**

Napoleon frowned at the phrasing; it was purposely vague in a fashion unusual for Gaby. “Everything?” He hedged.

“He went back for you,” she prompted.

“He shouldn’t have had to.” Napoleon said immediately, guilt flaring.

Gaby sighed and pushed a stray strand of hair back from her face. “Can we put that aside for a moment?”

“No.” Napoleon allowed her to pull him back down onto the couch and didn’t resist when she settled beside him and curled her fingers around his hand.

“Humour me.” Gaby said quietly. “Whether or not you think he should have, Illya _did_ go after you. This, what you’re doing right now, is spitting in the face of his sacrifice.”

Startled, Napoleon turned to her. “I’m grieving,” he defended.

“No, you’re wallowing,” she corrected. “You’re not thinking about Illya’s life, you’re regretting his death. It’s not healthy and it does no one any good. Least of all you.”

He stared at her, affronted.

“You can regret every single moment up to this point, but it won’t change anything. At the end of it all, Illya will still be dead. You can’t change the past, but you can learn how to deserve the sacrifice.”

He snorted. “Reading self-help books, Gaby?”

“Shut up.” She dug her sharp nails into his palm. “You don’t have to believe that you are worth it, but at least believe in Illya’s right to think you are.”

Napoleon considered her words.

“You would have done the same.” Gaby added, “a thousand times over.”

“Of course, but-“

“Respect his choice.” She interrupted loudly, “and stop kidding yourself. You loved him. Be a man and admit it, at least to yourself.”

Napoleon looked away, unable to meet her gaze. “I’m afraid,” he said softly. It was somehow both easier and harder to admit than he had thought. “I’ve carried this for-“ He shook his head, the words catching in his throat.

Gaby waited; silent, expectant, and squeezed his hand.

“Alright.” Napoleon closed his eyes, took the plunge. “I loved him.” He paused, and reassessed, hating the blasé tone of his voice but unable to break a habit of decades. “I love him. Still.” He waited for some kind of reaction to his pronouncement. A change in the wind, a tide of relief, something, anything, but nothing was forthcoming. “Exactly what was that supposed to achieve, Gaby?”

“Did you mean it?” Gaby asked sharply, her lips ghosting the shape of a scowl.

Napoleon hesitated. “Of course I did. Haven’t you been telling me I do for the past hour? And now, what, you don’t believe me?”

“Do _you_?”

Napoleon honestly didn’t know the answer, so he said nothing. Gaby’s disappointment at his silence was palpable as it expanded and filled the room, heavy and bitter against his skin.

“Don’t you feel _anything_?” She pulled back, withdrawing physically and dragging her warmth with her.

“What more do you want from me?” Napoleon dropped his gaze; hurt in a way he hadn’t imagined possible. His expression felt glued to his face, he couldn’t change it despite the fact that it reflected none of his thoughts, his emotions. No wonder she thought him shallow, uncaring. It was all she could see. Most of the time it was all he could be.

“I just.” Gaby searched his face, brown eyes imploring. “After everything…”

In the back of his mind Napoleon registered that she was still speaking, but his brain filtered the words before they reached his consciousness. The phrase _after everything_ had snagged him again and it was like a tumbler had suddenly clicked into place, a lock picked, a door swung open.

Suddenly, _he knew_.

“Everything.” Napoleon interrupted Gaby, ignoring her surprised huff. “He said _after everything_.” His thoughts were racing as he reviewed expressions, conversations, and implications; puzzle pieces slotting into place with unprecedented ease.

It was so obvious.

He stood abruptly and paced to the window, and then back across the room, past a clearly bewildered Gaby.

“Napoleon?” She followed his pacing with her eyes, her brow creased.

“He said _‘after everything’_.” Napoleon told her as he continued to pace, back and forth from the window to the door. “What if this, all of this, is just part of _everything_?”

The thought was a heady rush, a fire burning through his veins and obliterating the doubt and despair. It was so damned obvious. Illya had tried to tell him but Napoleon, completely absorbed in his own internal drama, hadn’t really been listening.

“ _Napoleon_.” Gaby seized his arm as he paced by, spinning him bodily around to face her. Her sharp nails dug into his flesh, but the pain barely registered. “What are you saying?”

Napoleon clutched her narrow shoulders in his hands and squeezed briefly. “He’s alive, Gaby.” He released her, wincing as her nails dug deeper, but barreled on regardless. “He is. He has to be.”

“Napoleon, please.” Her face seemed to sag as her eyes darkened and creased around the edges. “Let it go.”

“Gaby, don’t you see?”

Nothing Illya did, or said, was without purpose. Every little thing had meaning, every step was meticulously planned, and that was what _everything_ was. It was an elaborate plan and almost perfectly executed but for, Napoleon hoped, one key deviation.

Presumptuous? Maybe, but he’d done nothing but doubt Illya at every turn and it was about damn time he started trusting him.

“See _what_?” Gaby’s voice faltered, her expression raw. She was still clutching his arm tightly, her index finger just shy of a painful pressure point.

“He said he would tell me why after everything.” Napoleon explained and watched, with mounting impatience, as her lips twisted further in disbelief.

“I’m sure he meant to,” she said slowly. “That doesn’t mean he’s alive.”

“Of course it does!” Napoleon could see the puzzle as it formed clearly in his mind’s eye; could follow the pieces as they rotated effortlessly into place. It seemed impossible to miss. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he muttered under his breath and then tilted his head back and laughed. The relief that accompanied the revelation was intoxicating. “I was so stupid Gaby,” he closed his eyes. “You told me to have faith in him.”

“Napoleon.” She let go of his bicep and wrapped her hands around her arms, drawing away both physically and mentally. “Enough.”

“He only does things for a reason.” He could see it was hurting her, but he had to make her understand. Neither of them needed to grieve any longer.

“Napoleon, please.”

“It makes perfect sense.”

“ _Napoleon_.” Tears caught in her eyelashes but there was no grief in her voice, just anger.

“Only death releases from service.” He said desperately. “Gaby, you-“

“Illya’s ceremony is on Friday.” Gaby interrupted him, her gaze fixed somewhere to the left of his shoulder. Her voice was steady as she uncurled her arms and strode to the door, but he could see tension in her jaw and coiled fury simmering in her eyes. No doubt she would be off to make short work of some hapless agent in the dueling ring.

“Gaby,” he tried.

“You’ll be there.” She didn’t glance back as she opened the door and stepped through, but she paused on the other side and her gaze, though tight with anger, was imploring.

Napoleon nodded. “It’s what he would want.”

Gaby’s fingers clenched around the handle and the press of her lips tightened. “Must you make this harder on both of us?”

“He’s alive, Gaby.” Napoleon said softly.

“He’s dead.” She snapped, “and no amount of guilt, or denial, will bring him back. You have to accept how you felt, and you have to let it go. Let _him_ go.”

“That would be a poor repayment.” Napoleon said quietly. Gaby didn’t understand, and how could he expect her to? It had taken him this long, and he knew Illya as well as anyone could ever expect to.

“Napoleon, listen to yourself. You’re building this up in your head, and when you realize that…” She sighed. “Illya wouldn’t want you to obsess over it like this.“

Napoleon smiled at her. “Actually, he’s counting on me to do exactly that.”

“What makes you so sure?” Disbelief and reluctant hope warred across her features.

“I have faith,” he said. “Finally. I trust him.” He could see pity in Gaby’s eyes. It was clear she thought he was deluded; trapped in denial and destined to be disappointed.

“What if it’s too late?”

“It’s not,” he said simply.

As Gaby shook her head and closed the door, he could hear Illya’s last words ringing in his ears.

 _Had I but world enough, and time_.

Not words of regret, but words of promise.

 

**_Russia, 1970_ **

_Napoleon woke to cold steel and hard dirt and a pain that radiated from every muscle in his body. His thoughts were vague and unfocused but one rang through his mind as clear, and as deafening, as though he were standing at the center of a brass bell._

_Idiot. Idiot. IDIOT._

_He had done exactly as Illya had warned him not to, and in doing so he had compromised them both. It had been nothing short of foolish on his part to think that the KGB wouldn’t come after him if they had even the tiniest niggling suspicion that he knew something about Illya’s disappearance – and Oleg had made it clear that they did._

_He supposed the only consolation was that they hadn’t managed to tail him to the safe house, or it would likely be Illya languishing in chains in a dark dungeon of unknown location. Or, more likely, the responsible Russian agents would be dead – Illya would never have let his guard down enough to be captured so embarrassingly easily._

_Embarrassing was probably too kind a term for it._

_He had opened his eyes when he had first regained consciousness but had hardly registered it – his surroundings were pitch black. Now, he could see a glimmer of light peeking out from what looked like a long, narrow, gap along the floor. A door, almost certainly, and it was opening, if the steadily increasing gap was any indication. Napoleon had no way to note the passage of time, no way to know if it had been hours or days since his capture, and no way to conclude whether the door signified friend or foe. The safest option, he concluded, was to feign unconsciousness. Darkness engulfed him once again as he closed his eyes and let his limbs fall limply to the ground. A moment later he could hear soft footsteps and a heated stream of guttural Russian. There were no more than three speakers and he felt a sharp pain in his side as one of them kicked him viciously in the stomach._

_“Up, American.” One of the assailants drawled. His words were accompanied with another swift kick that left Napoleon winded and unable to forestall a grunt of pain._

_“Your American bellies are so soft,” he remarked. “I must be careful with foot or it may come out the other side.”_

_His companions chuckled. “Would be real tragic.”_

_Napoleon opened his eyes and rose to his knees, doing his best to gain what height the chains allowed him._

_“Gentlemen,” he greeted. “Perhaps we could dispense with the pleasantries?”_

_There was sufficient light in the room to allow him to make out the features of the three men standing before him, though it did him little good. They were, of course, unrecognizable to him and very clearly agents of the KGB. Their presence did not bode well for him; clearly it was time for his interrogation._

_One of the Russians was surveying him with obvious intent. Physically, he was the most unremarkable of the three, but Napoleon could easily see that had not hindered his career in the slightest. He had a dangerous presence. A certain chill in his eyes that spoke of ruthlessness and precision._

_“Where is the deserter, Illya Kuryakin?” Unlike the others his American accent was flawless, his grammar perfect._

_Napoleon knew the importance of what happened next. His words would set the tone of an interrogation that could only have one outcome: his death. The only question was how long he prolonged it._

_“In Russia, I imagine.” Napoleon said mildly. “Though he never did send that postcard he promised.”_

_One of the lackeys moved forward aggressively but the leader stopped him with little more than a glance in his direction._

_“You were in the CIA,” he remarked. “No doubt you know how this will end.”_

_Napoleon met his gaze squarely._

_“I will give you one last chance, American. If you do not comply, then when next we speak you will beg me to let you reveal every secret that you have ever known.”_

_Napoleon said nothing._

_“Loyalty.” The corners of the Russian’s mouth twitched into a smile that failed to reach his eyes. “I can respect that.”_

**New York, 1971**

 

It was an unsurprisingly dull affair. The service was nothing more, or less, than could be expected by a man whose very existence was classified. An impassive and uncaring official had spoken standard words with autonomous ease. A tiny plaque meant to represent the sacrifice of a human being had joined hundreds of others on a stone wall that would never see the light of day. Very few people had attended, a fact that might have induced a wild rage within Napoleon had he not known the event to be little more than a farce. Gaby had given him a tight hug when he stepped into the room, but had otherwise remained silent and several feet away from him. He could feel her gaze burning against the back of his neck.

Waverly had been and gone within the space of ten minutes, stopping only to lay his hand against Illya’s plaque and mumble what Napoleon guessed was an apology or a request for forgiveness. There were a few other agents Napoleon vaguely recognized, and two he had no recollection of. These were the people who mourned Illya Kuryakin, a paltry few. Most of them were filtering out of the room, consigning Illya to the past without a second thought. Mourning briefly and then moving on with their lives.

Not him.

He was waiting. What for, he didn’t know exactly, but this was the meaning behind Illya’s words. This was the end of everything. This was after, and he was owed an explanation.

 

**_Russia, 1970_ **

_Napoleon’s nerves were on fire. Pain radiated throughout his entire body, pain beyond any he had ever experienced. He was beyond cognition. Trapped in a blinding abyss that sucked the strength from the very marrow of his bones. Language was lost to him. There was no relief in silence, or in endless, primal, screaming._

_Mercifully, his body began to shut down in a desperate act of self-preservation._

_Blackness engulfed him and he knew no more._

_…_

_When he woke, he was drowning. Cold water surrounded him, encased him, slipped into his lungs and suffocated him. Intellectually he knew they wouldn’t kill him, not yet, but his body did not believe him. In a panic he struggled fruitlessly, his limbs bound and unmovable, until he weakened and began to drift away. His thoughts stilled…_

_…until he was yanked viciously to the surface. Something battered at his chest and forced his lungs to spit out the water clogging his airways. Rough hands freed his limbs and dumped him unceremoniously on the ground. Napoleon lay there, unresisting, and choked in a breath as his head spun and his consciousness returned slowly to him._

_“It seems you are lucky, American.” His Russian interrogator remarked. “Your dog has come running to rescue you.”_

_Napoleon opened his eyes and searched the room, his breathing still ragged, his limbs still weak._

_The Russian chuckled, a cold, empty, sound. “Oh, he’s not here yet. But he is on his way. Loyalty,” he mused. “A useful tool, wouldn’t you say?”_

_“Don’t…underestimate him.” Napoleon coughed, “he’s…not stupid.” He hoped desperately that Illya had a plan; a plan that didn’t involve his special brand of self-sacrifice._

_“No.” The Russian’s lips curled, “but he is a fool.” He barked several commands in Russian and then left, his men at his heels. The door closed behind them, and darkness engulfed the room._

_Time, minutes or hours, he couldn’t say, passed as he lay on the floor, and he found himself hoping they were simply lying to him. Anything, even torture, was better than Illya falling into the hands of the KGB._

_When the door finally opened, he had almost convinced himself that it was the case. That Illya wasn’t coming for him, that they were simply trying to break his morale._

_“You won’t get anything out of me,” he promised to the shadow in the doorway. He didn’t even bother getting up from the floor. Why make things easier for them?_

_“I do not expect to, Cowboy,” came Illya’s slow drawl. “I know you better than that.”_

**New York, 1971**

 Napoleon was the only one left. Still standing in an empty room, staring at a meaningless wall, waiting for an unlikely miracle. He was such an idiot. How could he have expected Illya to turn up? It was the height of hubris to attend one’s own funeral, and risky besides.

It was a fact that Illya rarely indulged in stupidity, unless Napoleon’s life was on the line.

Napoleon moved closer to the wall and brushed his hand across the plaque, closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I should have trusted you from the beginning.” He breathed in, deeply. “Well, I trust you now. After everything, right? I guess I have to let you decide when that is.” Silence rang in his ears and he savored it, for a moment.

“It’s your move, Illya.”

**_Russia, 1970_ **

_“Please tell me you have a plan.” Napoleon pushed himself to his knees and looked at Illya, standing firm in the doorway, with something approaching desperation. He couldn’t be sure that the lack of gunshots, or active pursuit was a good thing. It felt terribly wrong._

_Illya moved into the room and helped him to his feet, slinging Napoleon’s arm over his shoulder and supporting his weight easily. “I do,” he said brusquely._

_Napoleon eyed him as best he could, but could discern nothing from his expression. He felt weak for reasons that had nothing to do with his torture. Breathing deeply, and wincing as Illya helped him up the stairs, he bit the bullet. “Will I like it?”_

_Illya spared him a glance. “Probably not.”_

_That was all the confirmation he needed._

_“No.” He pulled back, tried to yank himself out of Illya’s hold, but the other man’s grip on his arm was unbreakable in his significantly weakened state. “Peril, I won’t do this.”_

_“There is no choice to be made.” Illya dragged him forward, gentle but unyielding. “It is done, Cowboy.”_

_Napoleon felt his world twist sickeningly. “No,” he railed. “This is my fault! Illya, you shouldn’t have come after me.”_

_Illya stopped, then, and met his gaze. For once his guard was down, his thoughts easily discerned. There was sorrow in his eyes, but mostly quiet resolve._

_“Napoleon,” he hesitated and then went on. “It never occurred to me to do anything else.”_

_Napoleon could see there would be no swaying him. All his words, all his clever manipulations, and none of them were worth a damn where it really counted._

_“I’m sorry,” he said as Illya pulled his arm back around his shoulders and started walking again._

_“It is not your fault.” Illya reassured him, and Napoleon could tell that he meant it._

_“No, it is.” He argued. “I should have been more careful, I should have-“_

_“This was inevitable.” The other man interrupted him, “it would have happened with, or without, your involvement.”_

_Napoleon didn’t have time to ponder that statement. Illya pulled him through a doorway, and suddenly they were surrounded. He tensed, but no one made a move towards either of them. Illya continued to walk into the room, dragging Napoleon with him, and the other occupants simply watched them. The room seemed to be a large transport area, and there were a number of trucks parked at the rear end. Waverley was standing with Oleg in front of the closest one, arms crossed and lips downturned._

_“Took your time, Kuryakin.” Oleg remarked in Russian._

_“That might have something to do with the state you left him in.” Illya replied, his tone clipped but words careful._

_“Waverly, you have to stop this.” Napoleon couldn’t even feel an ounce of shame for begging._

_“This is out of my hands.” Waverly said apologetically._

_“Kuryakin is a KGB agent.” Oleg reminded him coldly. “He must return to his country, to his people.”_

_“His people?” Napoleon scoffed, “you’ll crucify him.”_

_“Kuryakin must face the consequences of his actions.” Oleg motioned to Illya who handed Napoleon to Waverly and stepped back. “He deserted his country, he must be punished accordingly. It is the only honorable way left to him.”_

_“The only honorable death, you mean.”_

_“Yes, that too.” Oleg turned to Illya. “Say your goodbyes Kuryakin, and be glad you have the opportunity.” With a nod to Waverly, he strode away._

_“I’ll let you two gentlemen have a moment.” Waverly stretched his hand out towards Illya. “Kuryakin, it’s been a pleasure.”_

_Illya shook his hand. “Thank you,” was all he said._

_Waverly clapped Napoleon’s shoulder on his way passed, and then he was climbing into the truck and the two of them were left alone._

_“They’re going to execute you.” Napoleon’s voice was calm and steady, his mask back in place._

_“It is possible.” Illya acknowledged_

_“Only possible?” He challenged._

_“Probable.” Illya conceded._

_“Illya.” Napoleon took a step forward and Illya took a step back, obviously intent on keeping a distance between them. Frustrated, Napoleon held his ground. “Come with us.”_

_Illya shook his head._

_“We can fight our way through them.” He entreated. “You don’t have to do this.”_

_Illya’s lips curled in the smile he reserved for when Napoleon said something particularly stupid, but which he nevertheless found endearing. “Cowboy, we are in Russia. Would be suicide.”_

_“This **is** suicide.” Napoleon growled. _

_“Only for me.” Illya said softly. “I prefer it that way. Goodbye Cowboy.” He turned to leave and Napoleon darted forward and grabbed his shirt, dug his fingers into the fabric and held it tightly._

_“What about ‘after_ everything’ _?” He demanded. “You promised, you said we would talk.”_

_Illya removed his hand with ease and cradled it within his own. He met Napoleon’s furious gaze with his own tempered, inscrutable, one. “Had I but world enough, and time.”_

_Then he walked away._


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m truly sorry for how long this took. All I can say is that life planted itself firmly in the way. To anyone still reading: thank you, and I hope this gives you the closure you’re looking for.

New York, 1973

 

_“Had I but world enough, and time”_ had been Illya’s last words. Spoken soft, yet unwavering, a secret imparted in a moment that oscillated impossibly between a second and an age.

Two years later, and time had stolen nothing from that moment. Napoleon could recall with perfect clarity the intonation of each word, the pitch, the set of Illya’s spine – resolute, unaccommodating – the shape of his jaw, and the way the skin rippled around the corners of his mouth. He could recall the exact shade of blue in that piercing stare, the dark sweep of his lashes when his gaze slipped away.

It was a perfect memory: one unblemished by time and existing outside of it.

Napoleon stooped down and selected a bunch of grapes from the overflowing basket at the stall in front of him. He tucked the grapes carefully into his own wicker basket and slid it back onto the crook of his arm. It was Sunday and he was on leave from U.N.C.L.E following a mission in India that had left him with moderate injuries and an order to rest and recuperate. Food had always been a passion of his; one he tended to indulge when time permitted and, benched from missions as he presently was, he had nothing but time on his hands.

As he made his way over to the counter a heavily bearded man bumped into him roughly, apologised profusely, and then continued on without so much as sparing him a single glance. Napoleon, well used to the rudeness of New Yorkers in a hurry, steadied his basket and attempted to catch the eye of the wizened stall owner.

Whens he noticed him; he handed his basket over and waited patiently as she weighed and wrapped his selected produce.

“You have quite the eye.” She commented, hands moving with a swiftness that belied her apparent age. “Are you cooking for someone? A lovely lady, perhaps?”

“Just myself.” Napoleon smiled congenially.

“I see,” she patted him on the arm. “Well, don’t fret about it dear. A handsome man like you won’t stay single long, I’m sure.”

“Here’s hoping,” he replied with a light chuckle. Handing her a selection of bills as payment, he accepted some small change, tucked it into his pocket, and then headed further down the market stretch.

It was an uncommonly pleasant day to be browsing through the bustling markets. Though it was mid-July and well into the stifling heat of summer, there was an impish breeze cavorting amongst the stalls, and the blue of the sky was so deep it was almost cobalt. No clouds impeded the view, and it was early enough that the sun was far from its zenith.

It was perfect in its innocence, yet Napoleon’s instincts were clamouring for his attention.

He was being watched. Tensing imperceptibly, he continued to stroll down the street; using every reflective surface he could find to survey his surroundings.

Someone lightly tapped his shoulder and he spun around, fighting every instinct to ditch his basket and sink into a more advantageous stance. Still, he had moved too quickly, and the old lady let out a startled sound and stepped back hurriedly, tripping over the sidewalk in her haste.

He darted forward and steadied her before she fell. “My apologies, Ma’am.”

Gripping his arm tightly, she shook her head. “No, I startled you. Besides, no harm done dear.” Reaching into a violently floral bag, she drew out an old watch and handed it to him. “I just wanted to tell you that you dropped this.”

In mute disbelief, he stared down at the watch she had placed in his hands. He recognised it instantly, despite having not seen it in over two years.

“How did-?” He looked up, but the old lady had vanished, and the words died on his lips. Two years of silence, and now this. Napoleon could only assume it was a sign from Illya, but, in true fashion, it was nearly as inscrutable as the man himself. He resisted the urge to glance wildly around the street, and fastened the manacles of his self-control around his speeding heart. It was thumping unceasingly in his ears and, with a start, he realised that he was drawing unwelcome attention. He could appreciate that a man rendered wordless and motionless, in the middle of the street, by the presentation of an old watch was a strange sight, even for New York, so he stowed the watch safely in his pocket and gathered his wits.

Having no earthly clue as to how he was meant to proceed, Napoleon decided simply to return home and hope that there was another, preferably wordier, clue forthcoming. He headed off down the footpath at the slowest pace he could manage. He was determined not to speculate – to set himself up for failure – but he couldn’t stop the multitudinous thoughts from wreaking havoc with his feelings. This _was_ a sign from Illya, wasn’t it? It was his watch – of this, Napoleon was certain. And for Illya to have parted with it…well, he wouldn’t, not unless he was close by. _Or dead_ , his traitorous subconscious whispered.

It was only a short walk, and before long Napoleon was pausing before his front door to root ineffectually around in his pockets for his keys. Which, of course, were gone. His mind flashed back to the moment the bearded man had bumped into him. A stock-standard move, executed flawlessly - minimal eye contact and no time for facial recognition. But more than enough time to take a pair of keys, and more than enough time to leave something in their place.

He dropped his basket with a careless thud, and knocked on the door.

In the ensuing silence, the door swung open with an ominous creak and Napoleon’s breath caught in his throat. Despite the wild, craggy, beard, the overlong hair, and concerning gauntness, Napoleon felt no doubt that the man before him was his partner. Though he appeared as a homeless vagrant in his tattered, over-large clothes, there was quiet strength in his unbending stature and the set of his jaw. And the shade of his eyes was unmistakeable.

“Hello, Peril.” Napoleon said softly.

The ghost on his threshold took a step back and shook his head. “Illya Kuryakin is dead,” he said hoarsely.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow, affecting nonchalance, though in truth he felt as if his heart was making a bid for the Kentucky Derby. “Not from where I’m standing, apparently.”

And just like that, the illusion was shattered.

Illya sighed; a long drawn out exhalation, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Cowboy. For conman, you are much denser than I give you credit for.” But when he glanced up again, his gaze was warm.

Napoleon edged carefully into the room without bothering to pick up his basket, and closed the door firmly. He kept his gaze on Illya’s face to reassure the part of his sub consciousness that had quietly started to believe the other man really was dead.

Illya was watching him too, his gaze as frustratingly inscrutable as the day they had first met.

“Are you surprised?” The Russian asked quietly. There was just a hint of apprehension underscoring the corners of his mouth.

The answer to that question was far too nebulous to be anything but a hindrance to their reunion, so Napoleon evaded it in favour of one of his own.

“Why the watch?”

Illya frowned. “I thought it best to give you warning.”

Napoleon laughed; a short, sharp, sound that rang flat even to his own ears. “Only you would consider that a warning.” He tasted bitterness in his words and, with a shock, recognized anger simmering in his veins.

Illya seemed to recognize it too, if the slight widening of his eyes was any indication. “I knew you would make the right assumption.”

“You mean you hoped.” Napoleon hadn’t wanted it to go like this, but he supposed the danger of pushing your emotions away was that you never really knew exactly what they were until someone cut your artery and bled you dry.

“You’re angry.” Illya observed, and the passiveness in his tone only stoked the fire.

“You’ve been dead for two years.” Napoleon said mildly, despite the roiling heat in his abdomen. “A post card would have been appreciated.”

“I could not take the risk that it would be intercepted.”

“You’re a spy.” Napoleon said flatly. “Surely you could have handled a bit of encrypted communication.”

“Too dangerous.” Illya shook his head. “Only death releases from service. Illya Kuryakin had to die; it was the only way. If KGB had discovered I was alive, they would have come after you.”

“Ah, and you couldn’t have me messing up your plans again, could you?”

Illya actually flinched at that; a tiny, subtle, movement, and Napoleon realized, with chilling clarity, the full extent of his plan.

“I never messed it up.” He said slowly. “I played right into it.” And he had, he realized, with every single step. The mistrust, the suicide mission, the rescue – _I hoped_ , he’d said. And the sex, the disappearance, toying with his emotions, leaving him wanting – needing – an explanation, so desperate for clarity that he’d ignore every safe house rule in the book. His capture and torture at the hands of the KGB had created a necessity – a _reason_ – for Illya to give himself up in a way that was entirely believable. It had all been a giant stage-play building towards the final act: Illya’s death. And Napoleon’s grief had been just one more layer to consolidate the farce.

Illya had never intended for him to know, he’d intended for him to _suffer_. The watch had been a warning that Illya was alive, because he had truly anticipated that his partner would have bought the lies hook, line, and sinker. Despite everything they’d been through, there was still no trust between them.

Napoleon felt faint. The anger that had been driving him had been smothered out of existence, suffocated by the growing hollowness that threatened to engulf him fully. What Illya had done was the very definition of a long con. And he had done it with ruthless efficiency.

“How long –“ He paused, swallowed, and searched for moisture in the desolate cavern of his mouth. “How long have you been lying to me?”

Illya looked at him in that sharp way that he had; where his gaze felt like a scalpel dissecting Napoleon with clinical disinterest. He seemed to be taking in Napoleon in his entirety. Not looking _at_ him, but _through_ him.

His eyes softened. “Since that day at the University.”

“Since _1966?_ ” Napoleon hadn’t thought his self-confidence could sink any lower. But at the pronouncement that Illya had been lying to him for almost the entirety of their partnership, he felt something within him start to crack. “You’ve been planning this since 1966?”

Illya frowned then and shook his head. “No. I have not been honest with you since 1966.”

Napoleon caught the careful distinction, and some hopelessly maudlin part of him dared to wonder. It was thoroughly embarrassing, how easily this man could play his strings.

“About what?”

Illya was silent for a long time. His expression was so impassive it could have been carved from stone. Napoleon imagined he could see emotions warring in his eyes but, as usual, he could only see what he had projected there in the first place.

“I think you know this.” Illya said finally and, in that moment, Napoleon realized that maybe the other man was truly the bigger coward between them.

His anger flared. “You’ve always said that I make too many assumptions,” he snapped. “So maybe you could spell this one out for me.”

Illya looked at him and Napoleon caught a glimpse of hurt before blue eyes closed and the other man bowed his head.

“Always, we are at odds,” he said quietly. “But perhaps it is my fault. I should have been honest with you from the beginning.”

“Why weren’t you?”

“I was…afraid.”

“Because you didn’t trust me.” Napoleon groused. “I would never have turned you in. If you’d asked, I would have helped you. Surely you knew that?”

Illya looked up, then, and the corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “Cowboy…” He shook his head, and for once his expression was completely open. “That is not what I mean.”

“Then _what_?!” Napoleon let his frustration bleed through into his words. “Illya, can we please just drop the riddles and the lies and the evasions, and for once in your life could you just _say what you mean_.”

And then Illya laughed.

Napoleon stared at him, flabbergasted, as he leaned forwards and braced his hands on the dining table, still laughing, though Napoleon could not locate the joke.

“Cowboy,” he started, stopped. “Napoleon. You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to say those very same words to you.”

And suddenly Napoleon understood what Gaby had tried to tell him two years ago. His relationship with Illya could be perfectly described as a series of misunderstandings. Neither of them had ever truly understood the other, and neither had really tried to look beyond their own insecurities.

“Gaby was right.” He said quietly. “I’ve been a complete fool.”

Illya’s lips twitched in his typical half-smile. “Always with the assumptions,” he teased.

Napoleon stepped towards the dining table. “Well, perhaps we could clear some of those up,” he suggested.

Illya’s gaze locked on his, blue eyes as open, and as raw, as Napoleon had ever seen them. “I would like that.”

Napoleon stepped closer to Illya and reached out a hand to lightly stroke down the side of his cheek. Illya watched him silently, his head bowed ever so slightly.

“Let me start by saying that I am not interested in meaningless sex with you.” Napoleon kept his hand on the other man’s cheek, gentling the quote with a smile. “You have always been the exception to all of my rules.”

Illya frowned, his gaze slipping away. “That day. I should not have assumed. I was unfair to you.”

Napoleon shook his head. “No. I never gave you cause to think anything else of me.” He dropped his hand down and rested it at the nape of the other man’s neck. “When you said that, I made light of the situation because I was afraid that, otherwise, I would lose you altogether.” He swallowed, the words catching in his throat. “I…I never considered that you might want…more, because I’ve never thought of myself as worthy.”

The ensuing silence felt louder than the descent of a military helicopter, the vibrations just as devastating. Napoleon felt truly exposed, in a way that he had never felt previously. As if he had ripped his own heart out of his chest and offered it, still feebly beating, to the other man. He let his hand slip from Illya’s shoulder, but the Russian caught it and cradled it between his own.

“You are worthy,” he said firmly. “Worthy of trust, worthy of loyalty, and worthy of love. You should not doubt this. But if you do, I will remind you.”

Overwhelmed, Napoleon fell back on humour, though this time he knew that Illya would understand.

He quirked a smile, “so…would you say that you _are_ interested in meaningful sex with me?”

Illya leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together. “Cowboy,” he grinned. “I defected from Russia for you. Would be silly of me to back out now.”


End file.
